


Counterbalance

by YesIsAWorld



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - America, Ballerina Harry, Ballet, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Fan Art, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Motorcycle Racing, One Direction Big Bang, Secrets, Shitty Fathers, big brother Louis, racer harry, racer louis, shitty parents, side Ziam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-11-21 19:27:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 44,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18146435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YesIsAWorld/pseuds/YesIsAWorld
Summary: Harry Styles loves two things: teaching ballet and racing motorcycles. Those two worlds collide when his greatest rival on the track, Louis “Tommo” Tomlinson brings his tiny siblings to Harry’s class.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot thank [disgruntledkittenface](http://disgruntledkittenface.tumblr.com/) enough for holding my hand and helping me plot and betaing and offering up the gentlest, smartest suggestions and being unfailingly supportive. It was such a joy working with you!
> 
> [candybarrnerd](http://candybarrnerd.tumblr.com/) was kind enough to offer up her knowledge about motorcycles and MotoGP and motorcycle culture and this story is so much better thanks to you. That being said, I did deviate somewhat from real life MotoGP, and I hope if anyone else is familiar with it, you'll take my changes in stride [namely, that all the races happen in close proximity and not all over the world].
> 
> [Lauren](http://fullonlarrie.tumblr.com/) I love you dearly. Thank you so much for the prompt! And for the endless support and letting me ramble to you as I struggled writing this. ALSO! For being a kick-ass Mod!
> 
> [myownsparknow](http://myownsparknow.tumblr.com/) & [gettingaphdinmomo](http://gettingaphdinmomo.tumblr.com/) you two always know how to elevate my writing. Thank you both for being so kind and smart and great friends. xx
> 
> The most wonderful [Cat](http://catp.tumblr.com/) helped me with nail polish knowledge and brainstorming a million titles and is such a delightful person. I'm so lucky to be your friend! [Emmu](http://londonfoginacup.tumblr.com/) and [Becca](https://beccasafan.tumblr.com/) Thank you for being great mods!!
> 
> And last but certainly not least, the artwork for this fic was created by the amazing [pasmwa](http://pasmwa.tumblr.com/). Thank you so so much for taking my words and making the most gorgeous art. I'm in awe of your talent!

  


  


* * *

  


A prickle of fear runs through Harry’s body. His primal brain knows, before he’s fully aware, that he shouldn’t be flying through the air. 

He fights the instinct to tense.

His calf throbs in a heart-clenching fit of agony. And then time slows painfully as he hits the asphalt. His right forearm, hip, and thigh absorb most of the collision. Another jolt. He’s on his back, still sliding, as motorcycles roar past him. Instinct tells him to curl into a ball, to protect what he can. His racing brain’s already piecing together what happened, where his bike is, if there’s any chance to keep racing.

A jumble of blue and green catches his eye as the two bikes slide and bounce off the track.

Tommo. 

Of course it was fucking Tommo. 

It was Tommo’s bright blue bumper that had tapped Harry’s bike, knocking him off balance.

Harry allows himself a fraction of a moment of rest. Staring through his helmet’s visor, up at the grey clouds that threaten to let loose at any minute, he takes stock. Head’s fine. He can see, hear. He tilts his head, flexes his fingers, takes a deep breath. Wiggles his toes. Bends his knees. Sits up. His legs splay out in front of him. He watches as the last of the racers turn the bend and disappear. He looks to his right, starts to stand, then to the left. 

His bike, mostly covered by Tommo’s, lays in the gravel trap. Tommo—Louis Tomlinson—is already running through the grass towards the pile. By the time Harry’s on his feet, the race marshals have congregated. Harry needs to get there immediately to see if his bike stalled.

Harry runs. 

If Tommo’s bike has stalled, the race might not be over. The season could still be off to a good start. 

Tommo yanks his bike off of Harry’s, pushing it into a clear patch of grass. Harry’s heart thuds in his ears. Tommo’s still pushing his bike, trying to get it up to speed as Harry runs. The marshals yell indecipherable nonsense as the yellow flag waves and at least one medic motions for Harry to leave the crash zone. 

Harry ignores them. 

His hands shake. He’s desperate to get back on track. 

He can get a clean start. He can still finish. 

He’s seven steps away from his bike. _Please._ Six. He pushes his legs harder. _Please_. Five. His shoulder screams as he pumps his arms. _Please._ Four. The marshal’s hands are on the handlebars, voices shout at him. _Please._ _Please._

He slumps in defeat. His bike has stalled. 

The only consolation is Tommo standing off in the distance with his head angled to the sky and his hands rest on his hips; he must not have been able to get his started again either.

Harry trips on nothing, crashes to the ground, and then stands back up. He’ll meet his bike back at the garage. He turns and walks away.

“Fuck.” He kicks the gravel, rocks scatter in front of him. “Motherfucking fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

Halfway through the first race of the season and he’s out.

* * *

Back in the paddock, once the adrenaline wears off and the shakes set in, Harry’s entire body hurts. It’s not the ache of a good workout or a well-fought race, but the acknowledgment that his body went through what most people would call a serious trauma. Harry calls it another day on the race track. Sitting on a squeaky gurney in the medic’s office, he swings his legs back and forth and waits for the all-clear. 

He hates this part. He knows his body, knows that he’ll be fine with a long soak and plenty of stretching. 

The medic looks at him appraisingly one last time. “You’ll be sure to report back if any of the concussion symptoms appear, right?”

Harry nods. He knows the drill. He doesn’t have a concussion. What he does have is a bone to pick with Tommo. An irate father to deal with. A DNF on the first race of the year. He picks at the flaking black polish on his nails.

With a pat on his shoulder, the medic gives him the all-clear he’s been waiting for. Harry’s ankle twinges, which will be a total bitch if it doesn’t heal in a few days, but considering the worst case scenario of crashing his motorcycle at over 100 mph, he’ll take that small discomfort.

After entering more notes into his iPad, the medic clears out and Harry’s blissfully alone for first time all day. He stands up and closes his eyes. Breathes in. Opens them again. He focuses on the woodgrain of the door, at one particular whorl near eye-level. Taking a deep breath, he works through a series of stretches from his neck down to his toes. He allows himself a handful of extra seconds in the quiet room before he has to return to the madness.

On the other side of the door, the paddock’s alive. There are whoops of celebration from teams that did better than expected, and frustrated shouts from those who underperformed, and everyone’s talking about strategy. Regardless of the race standings, all the teams are packing up their gear in a perfectly choreographed whirl of activity. Now that the first race is out of the way, riders know what they’re up against and how the bikes felt. What they need to improve.

Harry’s dad had met him at the exam room, already mid strategizing session as he climbed off his golf cart and breezed past the medic. Harry did his best to tune him out; it’s not even worth protesting. Never has been. The prick didn’t even ask if Harry was okay. Being Des Styles’ son has a number of disadvantages, not least of which is that nearly everyone on the track does anything Des asks. Even the medic had hesitated before asking him to leave.

Harry’s not planning the next race yet. He’s still reliving the crash every time he closes his eyes. The jolt. The fall. The slide. The fear. He’ll need a pill before bed. He can’t risk throwing off his entire sleep schedule just because of a little crash.

There’s a loud knock at the door. Harry flinches. From the other side, Liam asks, “Harry? You in there?”

“Come on in, Payne.” Liam Payne, Harry’s crew chief slash best friend, is the only person Harry can stand after a loss, and is probably the only person who can stand Harry after a Did Not Finish. 

“Payne? That bad, huh?”

Harry can’t even paste on fake smile. “Hey, Liam.” 

They fist bump hello and Harry winces. 

“You okay?” Liam asks, as if Harry’ll give him a straight answer. 

“Sorry.” Liam’s the one who’ll have to clean up Harry’s mess of a bike even though he’s the one who crashed. 

“Not your fault. He ran into you. You did exactly what you were supposed to do, and you came away uninjured. Not a win, but—”

“How’s the bike?” Harry asks. Liam can placate him after Harry learns the extent of the damage.

Liam sighs. “I don’t know why every time I expect there to be a different response. Let’s go look your baby and then you can tell me how you feel.”

Harry stands, rolls his ankle once Liam turns his back, and follows him out of the room. “It’s only been five years, Liam. Maybe next time I crash, you’ll remember.”

Liam stops in the hallway and looks at Harry with that earnest look he’s perfected. “No matter how many times you crash, I’m going to be more worried about you than the bike. I can always fix the bike.” Harry swallows thickly. It’s been an emotional day.

“That’s why I keep you around.” Harry gently rams his shoulder into Liam’s body. It’s bone jarring, but he bites his lip to keep from swearing.

The damage to the bike isn’t as bad as Harry suspected. Some dirt got lodged in the gear level and they’ll need to replace the front fairing, plus some cosmetic body work to clean the scratches and dents too. He’ll be back on the bike the next day.

“Now, I expect the truth.” Liam raises his eyebrows. “How’re you feeling?”

“I’m fine. Leathers did their job.” He’ll have to get those looked at before next weeked. “Pissed about the race. It’s a good thing I haven’t seen Tommo around. But physically, I’m fine.”

Emotionally, he’s bruised, not that he’d tell Liam that. It doesn’t look like Liam believes him anyway, but Harry doubts he’d even believe the full medical report, so he lets it drop. 

“Want to come over for dinner tonight?” Liam asks. “I could make—”

“Harry!”

Harry winces at the deep voice shouting from across the garage. Liam rolls his eyes and grabs the nearest wrench, turning away so he can pretend to work on the bike. Harry doesn’t blame him. 

“What took you so long?” Des grips hard on the back of Harry’s neck, apparently unconcerned that he could’ve snapped it during the race, or that he might be in some real, actual pain, after both falling off a moving vehicle and then skidding across the track. 

“Gotta ask the medics.” Harry smiles thinly, as he ducks out from under his dad’s grasp. “There are some things they won’t bend the rules about—even for you—and concussion checks are apparently at the top of the list.”

Des harrumphs. “Well, now that you’ve passed the health check, it’s time to get serious.” Harry didn’t actually tell him he passed, so he knows he’d be getting the lecture whether or not he was healthy enough to hear it. “I thought this was going to be the season—”

“It’s the first race,” Harry hisses. “No one is out of the running yet.”

“—that you finally come out on top. I was looking forward to a good, old-fashioned ass whooping.” His eyes drill into Harry’s. Harry refuses to look away first. 

“He literally crashed into me.”

“Excuses.” Out of the corner of his eye, Harry sees Liam puts down the wrench. “It’s always excuses with you.”

It’s not an excuse. He was in the lead when Tommo took him out.

“Maybe this will convince you that it’s time to give up your other…” His dad pauses. Harry’s heart pounds with the fear of Des finishing the sentence. But Des must realize that they’re in public, in the garage surrounded by people who respect him. “Distractions,” he finally says. 

They’ve been at the same impasse for years. 

“If you focus this year, the championship could be yours. But you need to buckle down.”

Harry has no idea what his “distraction” has to do with Tommo whipping him out. He’s always focused. Two years ago he ended the season in third place. Last year he was second. 

Thankfully, the on-air talent and a cameraman walk up to them. Harry gives a small shake of his head and turns away, but not before he sees Des put on one of his blinding smiles. 

“Des Styles! Do you have a minute?” 

“For you, Andrew, I have five,” Des says. 

They both chuckle and Harry takes the opportunity to walk away. Liam catches up with him a few steps down the back hallway and gently elbows Harry in the ribs. It hurts more than Harry lets on. Liam laughs wryly. “What was that about?”

Harry matches Liam’s laugh, giving himself a second to think of an answer. “Oh, you know. He thinks anything that’s not racing is a distraction.” It’s not a lie. “Pretty sure he’d invent a way for me to eat intravenously while on a bike if he could.”

* * *

Harry rolls his neck while waiting for the jacked-up guy using the rope trainer to finish. The post-work crowd at the gym is different—fewer mothers relishing an hour of quiet and more dudebros trying to outlift each other—so he’s been throwing in some extra breathing techniques too, to keep from getting annoyed. He’s lucky that he snagged a free treadmill. 

Harry prefers to go in the morning, when his head is empty and it’s peacefully quiet. He can pop his ear buds in and work his muscles until they’re screaming, then stand in a hot shower to loosen back up before he reports to work. But Liam stayed over later than he normally does after a race and Harry was still sore all over when he woke up, so he allowed himself the rare luxury of sleeping in.

Going to the gym at this time of day blows.

Past the dudebros, Harry sees Malik, Tommo’s crew chief and, from what he can tell, best friend, with his hands wrapped and going to town on the punching bag. 

Malik puts a hand up in a wave and Harry nods a hello. He tucks an errant curl back into his topknot, then looks back down at the screen.

When he looks back up, his eyes land on this one guy, shorter and curvier than him, a mess of brown hair, piercing blue eyes, who’s been checking Harry out all evening. He’s exactly Harry’s type, and under a different set of circumstances, Harry might be interested in exploring the flirtation. But he’s not in the mood.

When his time is up, Harry turns down his music and steps off the treadmill. He reaches to touch his toes, stretching his hamstrings and effectively ending eye contact with the stranger.

He accidentally makes eye contact again with the same guy when the rope trainer’s free. Harry focuses on the rough fiber in his hands and maintaining perfect form as he gets a hang of the motion, and works straight through until it feels like his shoulders and biceps won’t let him do any more. Then he does two more minutes.

He shakes his arms out and walks to refill his water bottle. He takes a long drink, and turns directly into the guy who was eyeing him.

“Whoa,” the stranger says, putting steadying hands on Harry’s shoulders.

“Sorry,” Harry steps back, out of his space, “didn’t see you there.”

“It’s alright.” He gives Harry a smooth smile, and sticks the tip of his tongue out. “You’re Harry Styles, right?”

Harry takes another step back, walking into the wall behind him. “Yeah?” 

He’s never gotten used to the rare occurrences of someone recognizing him. Motorcycle racing’s a pretty niche sport, and he does it with his face obscured behind a helmet. He can’t assume this guy’s a fan; he made that mistake exactly once. After putting on a smile and puffing out his chest the tiniest bit, he learned they were one of Tommo’s fans, and just wanted Harry to know that he “sucked ass.” More often than not, if he’s recognized, it’s someone who wants to wax poetic about his dad’s glory days.

Harry watches as the guy rakes his eyes over Harry’s body. “Want to blow me in the locker room?”

Harry recoils, hitting his head against the wall again. “No.” He wants to go home and take a quick shower and a long bath. Make a salad for dinner and sleep for a few hours before he wakes up and comes right back here to the gym. “Sorry.”

The guy shrugs. “You make zero percent of the shots you don’t take.” He puts out his hand for Harry to shake. “I’m Anton; I’m here most nights if you change your mind.”

Harry opens his mouth, then shuts it again. Anonymous locker room sex isn’t for him. He’s always been more of a romantic, but Anton must not share that sentiment. “I’ll remember that.” 

Anton winks as he walks away and Harry leaves the gym without doing his final sets of pull ups. 

Sitting on his bike in the parking lot, waiting for his sweaty hair to dry enough to put his helmet on, Harry pulls out his phone to text Liam.

“Styles!” Malik calls out as he jogs over to Harry. “How you doing?”

“I’m alright,” Harry says. “You?”

“Good. Good. I didn’t know you came to this gym.”

“Yeah…” Harry looks up at the nondescript building. “I normally come in the morning.”

“Ah.” Malik nods his head. “Gotcha. Tommo and I are normally here in the afternoon because he won’t wake up early for anything.”

Harry twists his phone in his hands. He didn’t know Tommo trained at his gym. He doesn’t know what to do with that information, other than swear to himself to never sleep in ever again. 

“He had a family thing he had to deal with today,” Malik continues, as though Harry asked. 

Harry hums. He’s probably still sleeping off his hangover.

“Does Liam ever…” Harry waits for Malik to finish his sentence, even though it looks like Malik’s rethinking this whole interaction. “Come with you?” 

Harry shakes his head. “Nah. He’s got a gym in his basement. Gym rat, that one is.”

Malik runs a hand through his hair before he says, “Right. Yeah. Uh, hey, by the way, I’m having a little get together this weekend.” Harry’s heard all about those legendary ‘get togethers’ and all the debauchery that goes down. “You’re invited. Liam too. Maybe you can make this one.”

Harry flips his phone between his hands a few times. “Yeah, maybe. Thanks for letting me know.” He’s not going to go, but it’s nice that Malik always invites him. Even though he’s pretty sure the whole of the Motorbike Premier League is invited. 

“Okay, well, see you around,” Malik says. He pats Harry’s shoulder before he turns and swings his leg over the bike parked next to Harry’s own. It’s befitting that Malik’s bike matches his beauty: it’s sleek and shiny black, matching the shock of Malik’s hair that flops over the shaved side of his head, with subtle red pinstripes accentuating the curves of the fairing that echo in the red detailing of his black leather jacket.

“See ya,” Harry says, though Malik won’t be able to hear him over the roar of the engine starting up.

With a sigh, Harry pulls up his text thread with Liam. 

Liam Payne  
  
**Harry:** Some random dude at the gym asked if I wanted to hook up.  
  
**Liam:** you could prob use a good dicking  
  
**Harry:** fuck off, lima bean  
  
**Liam:** What was it this time? Was he ugly?  
  
**Harry:** He was cute :( totally my type. But something felt off. :(((  
  
  
**Harry:** Probs would’ve ended up being another dickhead who only wanted a story  
  
**Liam:** You’ll get ’em next time, tiger.  
  
**Liam:** (Lion Face)  
  


Harry pauses, his thumbs hovering over the letters, as he debates the likelihood of Liam pressuring him if he tells him about Malik’s invite.

He shoves his phone in his pocket and zips it up. He’ll tell Liam later.

Harry pops his head into his helmet. Liam’s probably right, as always. He does need a good dicking. But a blow job with a fan in a locker room isn’t the answer, and he doesn’t have the time for anything else. 

* * *

Harry rolls the waistband of his baggiest, top-most pair of shorts one more time. His brightly colored compression shorts peek out from underneath. 

It’s the last “Creative Ballet” class of the session, and the three- and four-year-olds are rehearsing their choreographed routine one last time before he opens the doors and lets their adults come in to watch… as though they haven’t been watching through the glass windows into the studio for weeks. The kids hit their last pose as the music comes to a stop. 

“Is everybody ready?” Harry asks. 

They all scream their reply, a resounding yes. The kids giggle and jump in place, a product of their nerves and the fact that they’re tiny, excitable children who love to be teased. 

“Are you sure?” Harry asks, stretching the last word out like taffy. 

There’s an even louder resounding cheer from the kids, so Harry walks to door and formally invites the adults and siblings to come in and sit on the floor, their backs to the wall-length glass mirror, so they all have front row seats.

The tots, dressed in pink or black lycra leotards, stand in two mostly even lines and wave in excitement at their adults walk into the studio. Harry loves this part of his job. The kids are excited, the adults are proud, and anticipation is thick in the room. 

The two minutes passes quickly and it goes as flawlessly as Harry expects. There are twirls in the wrong direction and off-beat bouncing. Some of the kids can only move their lower half or their upper half at one time and they’re all looking up at Harry in the front of the room instead of at their adoring audience. The song ends and Harry bursts into applause, proud of them for giving it their all.

The best part of Harry’s day is when they all circle around him and give his knees hugs and thank him. Most of them have signed up for the next session starting in two weeks, but he feels a surge of pride that they’re going to miss him until then.

Once the adults shuffle the excited kids out of the studio, Harry has it all to himself for a few hours. Harry turns up the stereo to drown out his thoughts, and walks over to the barre. He goes through all of the positions with well-practiced precision, then a set of stretches—mindful of his ankle—before he moves onto leaps and spins. He works up a sweat by the time he’s ready to do the routine he’s been rehearsing, and he allows himself a water break before getting back to work. 

He’s been dancing since he was three, when his older sister Gemma took lessons. Harry threw such a fit each time they dropped her off that he once sent himself into an asthma attack; he wanted to dance too. So, finally, his mom relented, and for years it was their little secret that the three of them kept from his dad. He didn’t understand at the time, but was happy to keep the silly secret if he could keep dancing like Gemma. 

Eventually it became a shameful secret.

He flexes his feet, then points his toes so hard that the top of his feet hurt. As he goes through the routine that his teacher, and owner of the studio, taught him, he watches himself in the mirror. He takes in every angle his arms make, extending his fingers, positioning his knees and hips over his ankles, each roll of his neck and the shape of his arched back. He notes what he needs to focus on next time, how much time he should devote to practice each step, how close he can get to perfection. 

His measured breaths and the gentle thuds of his feet each hitting the wooden floor work in tandem with the music coursing through his body. 

He works until his body feels like a wet noodle, and even though he hasn’t quite nailed every eight-count, he goes home to sleep before waking and hitting the gym in the morning.

* * *

Tommo wins the second race of the year, and after their disastrous crash in the first race, Harry knows all the commenters are setting them up to be rivals _again_ this year. As though he’s not rivals with all the other racers as well. Unfortunately, the media coverage seems to be fueling Des, and Harry might be disowned if he doesn’t place first in the next race. Harry spends every free minute of the next week on the simulator, perfecting his racing line.

The third race is tough from the beginning. Despite qualifying for pole position, Harry’s not as quick as he should be when the lights go out, and he fights hard to stay in the lead. 

Tommo breathes down his neck the whole race.

On the final lap, Tommo’s still right on Harry’s tail. Harry’s got to hang on to first place for six more corners and two flat out sections, and then he’ll be the winner. He leans into turn eleven, and goes wide, missing the racing line. His heart hammers against his rib cage when he catches the neon blue of Tommo’s bike pull up along side of him on the inside. Tommo pulls ahead in the blink of an eye and Harry knows he’s got to be perfect on the next turn or he’ll lose his chance to retake the lead. He fucked up and let Tommo through, and the only way to make up for that is to drive flawlessly until he crosses the finish line. 

He leans into the next turn, feels the heat of Tommo’s bike right next to him, only centimeters away, and exhales when he pulls out ahead, back in the lead. They go flat out during the straight, and it’s down to the acceleration of the bikes… and who wants it more. They almost touch again, flying side-by-side down the track, as they battle for the racing line. Harry can feel it down to his toes, how much he _wants_ it, and his jaw clenches tight as he all but throws himself forward. By some miracle, he stays out front, and all he has to do is not fuck up the last few turns, and he’ll finally have a win under his belt for the first time this season. 

The checkered flag is _right there_ and though Harry wobbles at the bitter end, he pulls through, and the win is his. 

He pumps his fist in the air and all around him the crowd goes wild at the end of the well-fought battle. On his victory lap, he relaxes enough that he stands up on his pegs and throws his arms wide, making himself into a cross and feeling the wind press against his body. 

Finally. 

Fucking _finally_ a race is his. He can’t wipe the smile from his face, not that he’s trying, and pumps his fist again. 

Fuck yeah.

***

For as long as Harry can remember, the start of the racing season has been a rebirth of sorts. It’s warm days full of possibility, since he and his dad, would spend the entirety of winter testing and doing track runs without getting to properly race. Spring and a new season will probably always be conflated in Harry’s mind, and this year, finally, he feels it down to his bones. 

His undersuit keeps him as cool as possible on the winner’s platform but the combination of leather, the way the sun smiles down on him, and the heart-pumping exhilaration of that final lap means he’s still sweating as they break open the champagne.

Liam’s face is tilted up at him with a look of such pure pride that Harry’s heart swells a little and he almost feels guilty about spraying him with champagne. But Liam’s grin grows wider. 

They were both depressed and angry and disheartened when Tommo won the championship last year. It was a gut-wrenching year for Harry. Too many races were lost in the last laps, and Liam grew increasingly frustrated that he couldn’t do more to help. Harry was determined to shake off those stats and start fresh this year. It took until the third race, but Harry’s confident he can keep this going further into the season, especially winning a nailbiter like that.

He doesn’t see his dad out there, but Harry supposes he must be somewhere in the crowd; he’s always lurking around the garage. Maybe Harry’ll get a drunken, congratulatory fist bump from him when they run into each other post-celebration. But Harry doubts his dad would show even that level of enthusiasm. Depending on how hard he’s hit the bottle, it’ll be critique after loud critique about his cornering.

Drenched from spraying champagne on each other, Tommo and Samuels jump around the platform. The three of them pose for a few promo pictures, then Harry slides his sponsor-covered hat on backwards and weaves his way back to the pits. 

He’ll have to rewatch the race later to see how the rest of the racers faired, but the continued choruses of ‘great race’ and ‘what a finish’ lobbed his way may mean that everyone was antsy for an exciting race, and Harry was glad he could deliver. 

Liam’s eyes light up like Christmas has come early when Harry spots him from across the bustling room.

“Thanks, bro,” Harry tells him as he skips through the garage, still high off the win. “Couldn’t have done it without you.” Harry feels like he needs to dedicate every win to Liam. The guy works tirelessly and gets exactly none of the glory.

“Everything felt okay out there?” Liam pats him on the back then pulls him into a tight hug. “You looked steady.”

“Yeah, it was a good ride. Nothing felt off.”

“Want to come over to mine? Celebrate?”

“Yes. That’ll get my dad off my back too. I can tell him we’re strategizing or some shit.”

Liam squeezes his shoulder. “Come get me after the post race interviews, yeah?”

Harry needs a shower and few minutes of meditation, but he knows whenever he comes back to fetch him, Liam’s still going to make him wait. There’s bound to be some screw or spring or something that Liam’s intent on perfecting before the next race.

Tommo’s in the hallway, outside of Harry’s dressing room. His leathers are still on, but unzipped down to his hips, with the arms tied in a knot around his waist. The undersuit clings to Tommo’s torso and the ribbing draws Harry’s eyes from the width of his chest to the dip of his waist. For a fleeting, stupid moment, Harry wonders if Tommo is going to congratulate him, but then he clocks the scowl on his face and knows this isn’t a friendly visit. 

“Good race,” Harry says. 

“Yeah.” Tommo makes quick eye contact, then looks past Harry, down the hall behind him. 

“Um…” Harry looks behind him. “Can I help you with something.”

“No.” Tommo scoffs. “Why would you think that?”

“Because you’re standing like a creep outside my dressing room?”

“I’m not a fucking creep.” Tommo puffs up his chest and looks Harry straight in the eye like he’s gearing up for a fight. 

Harry’s definitely not looking for a fight. “I just want to get out of this thing.” He yanks at the zipper on his race suit. “So if you don’t mind…”

“Do you know where your dad is?” Tommo says it quickly, and as Harry’s parsing out the individual words, Tommo mumbles, “Thought he might be with you.”

“I have no idea.”

“Oh.” Tommo’s brow furrows. “Okay.”

Harry goes into his dressing room, gets as far as taking his arms out of the suit, and with a sigh opens the door. Tommo’s already halfway down the hall. “Hey, Tommo. If I see him, I’ll let him know you’re looking for him.” 

Tommo pauses, gives him a thumbs up without even turning around, and keeps walking away. “Thanks, Styles.”

***

Harry’s favorite way to start a new class of tots is to have each tiny dancer stand up and do a dance when their name is called. He can get a sense of their natural movements and how nervous they are, and it helps him put a face to the names of his new students. 

This new class doesn’t disappoint, with one four-year-old in a purple tutu wildly throwing her arms and hips in a rough approximation of what might be called a floss, and the other new student needing a bit of encouragement until she finally wiggled her hips from side to side then sat right back down at her place in the circle. 

Surprisingly, the last two names on his student roster, Ernie and Doris, are late… or, Harry glances at the clock, not showing up. Most new students were there plenty early on their first day, and as Harry lines the kids up facing the mirror, he wonders if they’ll be getting calls about the non-refundable deposit for the spot. 

Harry begins to explain flexing and pointing feet—Toes to the sky! Toes to the floor!—when there’s a commotion in the waiting room. Through the glass he can see the adults’ attention has moved from the kids to whatever is happening behind them. Harry pulls his hair up into a topknot as he makes his way across the studio to peek his head out the door. 

The last thing he expects to see is a very frazzled Tommo with two small children, trying to slide headbands on both of their unruly heads of hair. 

For one heart-stopping moment, Harry’s fight or flight instinct kicks in and every fiber of his body wants to run. He looks back at the room full of tiny children staring at him, and back to Tommo, who looks up as he finishes. 

It could have been comical, the way Tommo’s face goes from exasperated, to a polite smile, to utter confusion when he looks up at Harry. Harry cannot crumble in panic in front of the children, so he pastes on a passable, customer-friendly smile and before he knows it, he’s pretending he has no idea who Tommo is. 

“This must be Ernie and Doris?” he asks with a tilt of his head. 

“Uh, yeah.” Tommo answers. “What, uh—”

“Great! Class has already started—”

“Sorry about—”

“So come on in and meet the rest of the kiddos!” Harry steps back and holds the door open behind him. Once the kids—Tommo’s kids!—walk through, he shuts it behind him without looking back. 

Harry’s shaky and off-balance the rest of the class. Half of his brain is consumed with the fear that someone outside of his family now knows, that he doesn’t actually know Tommo well enough to know if he’ll tell everyone—maybe he already has. He could be out there texting everyone they know. Asking politely to keep Harry’s secret extends past the vague coworkers—mostly rivals—relationship they’ve maintained through the years which is mainly… not interacting with each other. 

Des will be livid about this once word gets out. 

If word gets out. 

He’s got to try and reason with Tommo after class, bribe him, maybe, with a way to stay quiet about the whole thing. He could keep the fact that Tommo has kids a secret. That seems like a more than fair trade. 

The other half of his brain keeps stalling when he remembers that Tommo’s right out there, watching him teach kids ballet. Not even proper ballet, since the kids are too young, but vague dance-like movements that mostly involve following him around the room pretending to be different animals. For the first time, he’s self-conscious about how he’s doing, and he can’t stop wondering what Tommo must be thinking while watching him. It’s a stupid thought and he tells himself to knock it off everytime it pops back up because he’s a great teacher and both the kids and parents love him and honestly who even cares what Tommo thinks? But then it sneaks up on him again. 

With his brain fully occupied, he runs the class on autopilot and audibly sighs in relief when the time’s up. 

“Great class, kiddos!” He kneels down so he’s closer to their level. “Line up for fist bumps on the way out. And I’ll see you next week!”

He makes small talk with some of the kids’ adults as everyone packs up, though he keeps glancing over at Tommo. His kids are jumping up and down, recounting the class to him. They’re really cute kids, and Harry wonders who their mom is since he didn’t think Tommo had a long-term girlfriend. Not that knocking up a random girl he met at a club was out of the realm of possibility; Harry’s seen the headlines and paparazzi shots of Tommo’s infamous nights out.

When everyone else has cleared out of the waiting room, it’s clear that Tommo’s stalling, so Harry finally gathers up some courage and clears his throat.

Tommo looks up and says, “Hey.”

“Can we? Do you have a minute to talk? I want to—”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Okay.” As curious as Harry was, he didn’t want to pry. He wasn’t ready to beg for a favor though either. “Cute kids. Twins?”

“Yeah, runs in the family. Was still a big shock when we learned there’d be another set, though.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Harry let out a little chuckle that felt forced to his own ears. _Another_ set. “Must be a lot of work.”

Tommo joins his awkward laugh.

Harry’s dying to know, and he can’t stop himself from asking, “Is the, uh, mother… still… like… around?”

“What?” 

“Sorry. That’s, like, clearly none of my business. I just didn’t know— It was a surprise, you, showing up with them.”

“Oh.” Tommo’s furrowed brow loosens, until his eyes go wide with a disbelieving laugh. “No. Styles. No. Whoa. No. These two are my siblings. They don’t… they’re not… mine.”

“Oh.” Harry tries to mask his surprise. Too much has happened in the past thirty minutes and his head’s spinning. “Right. Yeah, okay. That makes sense.”

“Try to see them as much as I can though, so, that’s why…” He flails his arms out at the empty room. “Ballet duty!”

They look at each other in the awkward silence that follows.

“Cool. Speaking of…” Harry clears his throat again. “This. Well, that I teach this. Ballet. No one knows that I’m a dancer, or that I teach.”

“Oh.”

“Like, _people_ know. But not the people we know.”

Tommo tilts his head in obvious confusion.

“Sorry. I didn’t plan…” He takes a big breath and starts again. “My dancing, and teaching dancing, is something that I’d rather not have the racing community know about. So, if you could do me a solid, and like, not tell anyone, about this? I was going to offer to keep your secret about your kids. But…” Harry’s not sure that he sold it. “I’d really appreciate it.”

“No one knows?” 

Harry remembers his dad’s red-faced anger whenever he tried to talk about it as a child. His father’s still embarrassed by Harry’s love of dance. Now that he’s older, he gets it. He’d be a laughingstock if word got out. And now Tommo, someone he can’t trust on the track, let alone off it, is the keeper of his secret. Harry shrugs. “Not really.”

“Okay. Yeah, not a problem. Lips are sealed.”

“Thanks, man. I really—”

“Styles, it’s not a problem. I promise.”

And that’s that. They say their goodbyes, and the studio is his alone, again, so he turns the music up loud and works out the stress that’s settled in his muscles. 


	2. Chapter 2

Harry watches Tommo pound his feet on the treadmill like he’s racing everyone else in the row of machines. He curses Malik’s lie about Tommo never waking up early, and considers how hard it’d be to get out of his current contract with the gym. Maybe Liam would let him use his basement from now on. 

Luckily, it doesn’t seem like Tommo has noticed that Harry’s lurking from across the room, trying not to focus on Tommo’s ass as he runs. The timer on his phone rings, his sixty seconds of rest over, so Harry turns around in the power cage and focuses on his squatting form.

Once he’s done, he can’t help but glance over in Tommo’s direction with some hope that he’s disappeared into thin air. But it’s just Harry’s luck that, when he looks over his shoulder, not only is Tommo still there, but he’s looking right at Harry. Tommo’s eyes flick away quickly. It’s probably Harry being self-conscious though, because he doesn’t know why Tommo would be watching him. 

Tommo’s shirt is stuck to his back with dark patches of sweat, as he takes a drink of water before tapping on the screen to change the inclination. Then he’s running faster, his legs pumping hard and feet thudding on the rubber. Harry turns to add more weight before his next rep. 

They make brief eye contact, then Harry looks away between one blink and the next. He breathes through the next set of reps and curses Tommo’s existence. This is supposed to be his quiet time, when he can focus on the flex and press of his muscles and quiet his mind before the day starts. He’s not supposed to be distracted and thinking about Tommo, of all people.

The sheen of Tommo’s sweat highlights his sharp cheekbones and the side eye he gives Harry whenever they make eye contact from across the room.

Harry lifts the kettle bells, makes sure he has a firm grip on them, and starts his lunges. Tommo slows to a jog, then a walk, then he’s stepping off the treadmill and taking a long drink from his water bottle. 

Halfway through his set of lunges, Tommo shows up at his side. “Hey, Harry.”

“Tommo.”

“You good?”

“Uh…” Harry racks his brain for a reason why he wouldn’t be good. He breathes through another few deep steps. “Yeah? You?”

“Yeah.” Tommo clears his throat and takes another swig from his bottle. His shirt’s skintight and his chest heaves as he’s still catching his breath. “Z said he saw you here the other day.”

Harry drops the kettle bells and reaches for his own water bottle. “There’s not a lot of quality gyms around here,” he says. 

Tommo shrugs. “Guess you’re right.”

Harry takes another drink and hopes Tommo will make his way to the locker room and leave him alone. He’s not sure why Tommo’s talking to him as if they’re friends.

“Was up early with the twins,” Tommo eventually says, like he’s reading Harry’s mind. “They have their own room at my house. I don’t know why they both needed to climb into my bed at five a.m.” He chuckles lowly. 

“Yeah.” Harry smiles at the mention of the twins. “They’re cute kids.”

“Not at five a.m. they aren’t. Little devil children.” Tommo laughs again. He takes another gulp of water. “You have any siblings?”

Harry nods. “Yeah. An older sister. We’re not that close though. She and my mom don’t really get the whole racing thing.”

“Is that how you got into ballet?”

“Fuck,” Harry hisses. His heart pounds in fear. He whips his head around to see who’s around. Thankfully, no one. “You can’t just say—”

“Sorry. Fuck. Sorry. Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

Harry wipes his palms on his shorts. “Just… drop it. Okay?”

“Yeah, of course.” Tommo bends down and reties his shoelaces. “Does your dad… Is he like… supportive of that?”

Harry scoffs and pushes a curl out of his face. “No. If it’s not racing, he doesn’t care about it.”

Tommo laughs again, even though it’s not funny. “God, I can’t even imagine. He’s such a legend. And like, you grew up getting to like, have dinner with him.”

Harry _hmms_ as he straightens the weights that don’t need neatened.

“I just admire him so much, you know?” Tommo says. 

Harry _hmms_ again. Everyone admires Des. 

“You’re so lucky to have him,” Tommo says because he doesn’t know when to fucking stop talking. 

“Fucking hell!” Harry stands up, and the weights around him clatter. He snatches his water bottle off the floor and squeezes more than he can swallow into his mouth as he walks away. It dribbles down the front of his shirt.

“Harry?” Tommo calls after him, but Tommo finally has the tiniest bit of sense and doesn’t follow him into the locker room. 

Harry's hands shake as he tries the combination to his lock, and on his fourth try he gets it right. 

He shoves a balled-up sock without a match and his clean t-shirt into his gym bag. He needs to get out of there and into fresh air, and if he’s missing anything he can swing by the lost and found when he comes back the next day.

***

Harry sticks a finger into the starched and pressed collar of his shirt, and yanks. The room’s stifling; between all the waitstaff passing trays of tiny, unappetizing bites, and the sponsors acting like they own the right to make the riders do whatever they want, Harry can’t wait to leave. Plus, he feels like a show pony, with the teams selling their riders to other prospective sponsors. It’s by far the worst part about Harry’s job. 

One small consolation is that Des has been across the room all night, schmoozing some investor—luxury watches, it looks like. And Harry’s avoided Tommo so far, too. Thanks in part to Tommo following Des around since they got there. They can drink and schmooze and whore themselves out to their hearts’ content.

Harry didn’t inherit the patience needed to be able to stomach long conversations with people who only want to use his name. He has a hard enough time relaxing around people at the track and having a laugh there, let alone around these entitled assholes. Selling himself—his name—to the highest bidder, to sell luxury products to rich fucks with more money than they know what to do with would always be distasteful. He understands the reality of his situation, but he doesn’t have to like it. 

It was as far away from actual racing as they could get.

Normally, Liam acts as Harry’s crutch during Motorbike Premier League promo events. But engineers weren’t invited to this one. Too low-brow, apparently. Riders and team leaders and sponsors only. Harry hates every minute. He can't do what he does on the track without Liam and the idea that he can sell boats or luggage or shoes better than Liam is laughable. Liam’s the masculine one, the one with the good looks.

Harry’s coming up with a plausible excuse to leave when Des spots him from across the room and makes his way over. “Harry, son, there’s someone I’d like you to meet,” Des says. Des’ nose is red and Harry can practically smell the vodka wafting off of him. Harry puts his drink down and holds out his hand to the wiry man next to his dad. “This is Christian Arnault. He’s the—”

“CEO of LVCD.” Harry might not like it, but he’s always prepared. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. How’s the new title treating you?”

Christian squeezes his hand while they’re shaking and pulls Harry in for a hug, which wasn’t expected. 

“Good, good.” Christian takes a step back and takes stock of Harry. “Our investments are all performing as expected, some even better than we planned. The Asian markets have really been excelling more than we could’ve predicted.” Harry puts on his best ‘interested and listening’ face, even though he could care less about the Asian markets or how much profit this guy’s company is expected to earn this quarter. “I’ve been watching you this year. Finally Tomlinson has some real competition.”

Harry smiles tightly and pretends he hasn’t been Tommo’s competition for as long as they’ve known each other.

“Christian was telling me about their new line,” Des butts in.

Christian puffs out his chest. “They’re watches, for a more masculine man.”

Harry looks back and forth between the two men. Des raises his eyebrows, prompting Harry to engage. “What does that mean?” Harry asks.

Christian throws his head back as he belly laughs loudly. Harry’s not sure what’s so funny. Christian explains, “Stronger lines, darker colors. They’ll have a heft to them that’s missing from most watches on the market today.”

“I didn’t realize men were looking for a heftier watch,” Harry says. He hates wearing watches on his own time, and he twists the one he’s currently wearing—comped to him after his last sponsorship deal. It feels like a shackle. 

“You’ll have to cut your hair, of course,” Christian says.

Harry scoffs in disbelief.

“It’s a good deal of money,” Des says. “Would introduce you to an untapped demographic.”

Harry refuses to cut his hair. Even if it is for a good deal of money. 

“Men can still be masculine with long hair,” Harry defends. Not that it’s something that even needs to be debated. “Fabio made a whole career out of it. Those hair bands in the 80’s. Dave Grohl. Jason Momoa—you’re telling me he’s not masculine?”

“Well, yes. Those are all great examples of strong, virile guys with long hair. But they’re also less…” Christian narrows his eyes as he struggles with his words.

Harry waits him out, prepared for an outright homophobic comment. 

Christian takes the coward’s way out, laughing lightly and taking a long sip of his drink. 

“I’m not sure this is the right product for me,” Harry says, far more polite than what Christian deserves. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Des’ eyes go huge and Harry can read his mind, begging for Harry to stay and close the deal. Instead, Harry puts out a hand to shake goodbye.

Christian smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “We’ll be in touch.”

There’s a wet ring left on the table when Harry picks up his glass of water. He downs it in two long gulps and puts the empty glass back down.

***

It’s the morning of seventh race of the year. Tommo's leading in the standings, having won two races and placing better than Harry on the races Harry didn’t win. Harry’s not rushing, exactly, on his way to see Liam, but the race starts in a few hours and he won’t feel settled until all his gear’s in the right place. His search for his new helmet came up empty and he’s sure Liam knows who has it or where it was set down at some point.

He makes a right in the maze of hallways in the paddock, and passes by Tommo’s dressing room. 

The thing he doesn’t expect to see is his dad, with a big smile on his face, patting Tommo on the shoulder. 

After doing a double take, Harry presses himself to the wall next to the open door where they can’t see him. He doesn’t necessarily mean to listen in, but he’s so confused. With all the pressure Des has put on Harry to win—to beat Tommo specifically—he doesn’t understand why Des is so chummy with Tommo around the paddock.

“You think I should do it?” Tommo asks.

“Well,” Des pauses. “I think that’s something only you can decide. I think you should go with your gut. If it feels right, then it’s probably a good choice.”

Harry doesn’t know what they’re talking about, whether it’s related to racing or not, but either way he can’t imagine that’s his dad’s reaction. Des has strong opinions about literally everything, and particularly about what Harry does and doesn’t do. He’s never been that blasé about anything, including what they should have for dinner.

When his dad says “you’re a smart racer, Tomlinson,” Harry shakes his head and walks away. The comment’s like a hot poker to Harry’s chest. Frustrated tears well in his eyes and he furiously blinks them away before anyone sees him. 

Tommo is Des’ main competition for best racer of all time. They’re already tied for the most championships ever won. Harry knows this; his dad never lets him forget. All he hears from Des is how much of a disappointment Harry is because he’s going to let Tommo “steal” the championship this year. 

A frustrated sob threatens to escape his lungs. His dad has never, ever, given Harry a sincere compliment. There’s been a lot of tips and tricks and telling him how he needs to improve and some backhanded compliments along the way. He thought that his dad didn’t have it in him, like he was wired in such a way that he didn’t know how to give positive feedback. But that’s not true. He can’t find anything at all in Harry’s life that deserves a compliment. 

Well. At least now he knows. 

But something about the fact that Des has compliments ready to dole out to the one person he’s made sure Harry is aware of at every turn and every straightaway sets Harry on edge more than if it had been literally _any_ other racer.

Maybe it’s because Tommo idealizes Des, follows him around like a lost puppy, is always asking for advice. Tommo can have him. Let him suffer through those tense family dinners he envied so much. They deserve each other. Harry hates everything about it. They can keep on idolizing each other; Harry’s come this far on his own, he can keep going without their praise. 

Harry makes a loop around the paddock and doesn’t find either Liam or his helmet. It’s fine. He’ll find that on his own too. Defeated, he heads back to his dressing room. 

Where he finds Des sitting on the couch, typing away on his iPhone. He looks up as Harry enters the room, then goes right back to his phone. 

“Whatcha doing here, Dad?” Harry asks. “I need to start getting ready.”

“I heard back from Christian today,” Des says, letters clacking annoyingly as he types.

Harry makes a grunt of assent to let him know he heard him. 

It doesn’t seem like Des is going to continue, and Harry has other things to worry about than luxury watch sponsorship deals. He turns his feet out in first position and rolls his body forward to touch his toes. His hamstrings pull tight and Harry holds the position. 

Des scoffs. 

“I’m stretching before a race,” Harry says, eyes trained on the floor, blinking rapidly. “Surely even you’ve done that. If you’re annoyed, you can leave.”

“Of course,” Des snaps. “But not like that. Not like…”

Harry stands up straight and puts his hands on his hips, waiting. 

“Well, you know…” Des finally says. 

“I don’t.” Harry’s so needled from earlier that he can’t help but poke the bear. He normally lets it drop, keeping his dad from saying the hurtful things that are on the tip of his tongue. But Harry needs to hear it. Wants his dad to prove it today, and stop being a coward.

Instead, Des fixes him with a stare. “Christian wanted to confirm that you wouldn’t cut your hair for the deal. He thinks he can get the contract to us today if you’re willing.” He pauses, and when Harry doesn’t bite he continues, “There’s someone else they’re talking to, too. Tommo.”

Harry resists the urge to pull on his curls, or throw them up into a messy bun, hiding the length. He clenches his hands into fists at his side. “It’s non-negotiable.”

“Damn it, Harry.” Des fists his phone and pulls back like he’s going to throw it across the room. Then he takes a loud breath. “You’re going to let this deal fall apart because of a little hair?”

That’s not the way it works, Harry wants to scream. They’re clearly also going to let the deal fall apart because of a little hair. But the irony is lost on Des. Harry shrugs. “Apparently.”

“Fucking kidding me,” Des mutters under his breath. “Always such a disappointment.” His dad puts his hands on his knees then stands and pockets his phone. “I’ll see you after the race.”

Harry’s still shaking when Liam finds in him the bathroom later. Thankfully Liam’s holding his helmet and though he throws a few questioning looks Harry’s way, Liam knows better than to pry before a race.

He has to focus.

***

The race is a disaster from the beginning. 

Despite qualifying in third place, Harry jams the clutch once the lights go out and finds himself in the middle of the pack by the first turn. It only gets worse from there. The bike doesn’t feel _right_ under him. Liam must’ve tweaked it between the end of qualifying and the start of the race a few hours later. He’s going to make Liam do a full diagnostics after the race.

Unfortunately, he has no one to blame but himself when he misses the racing line through the hairpin. Trying to correct it, he overextends the other way, and hits a joint where a patch of track was resurfaced. That bounce sends the bike wobbling under him and as hard as he tries to hold on, Harry flies off the bike as it twists and tumbles through the air.

He prepares himself for the landing, trying to avoid his wrists, and rolls through the impact, crossing his arms in front of him as he tumbles a few times. The world spins as he goes end over end. He hears the bike right behind him, the the smell of gas and melting tar chasing him. 

It’s a stupid crash and no one’s fault but his own. 

In a split-second decision he ducks to one side, counting on the bike coming to a stop on the other. He breathes for a few seconds, because he’s so fucking angry he could scream. He let Des, and fucking Tommo, get under his skin, and now Des has even more ammunition to lay into Harry. 

Finally stopped, he slaps the ground with both hands, shaking with frustration and anger and years of pent-up knowledge that he’ll never be good enough. A marshal on the other side of the safety fencing yells for Harry to hurry up and cross over to his side, where there’s already another marshal on a moped idling and waiting to give Harry a ride back.

The ride back is the worst because Harry can’t stop thinking about how riding on the back of a motorcycle shouldn’t feel emasculating, and yet he’s sure that’s how it looks to Des, coming back to the pits on the scooter of shame. He doesn't want to care. He hates that he cares. He’d give anything to turn off the unending loop of failure in his head. Everything’s so fucking stupid.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry’s finally comfortable—legs stretched across the couch, a pillow perfectly placed behind his back, ice packs and remote in arm’s reach—when someone knocks on his front door. He grunt-roars at the ceiling, then starts the arduous task of standing and walking clear across his house. He’s not even sure what he bought recently that would be delivered to him. He hopes it’s not another pre-portioned, high-protein meal delivery service that his dad secretly signed him up for. He’s perfectly capable of cooking his own damn dinners.

He opens the door with a scowl, then blinks a few times when he sees who it is. “What?”

“Hi to you too.” Standing there with a grocery bag and an amused smirk is Tommo. “That’s exactly how I sound after a crash.”

Harry sighs as he leans against the door frame. “Tommo, what are you doing here?” He doesn’t have the energy to trade barbs. Least of all with Tommo. He has a couch and a gorgeous shade of cherry blossom pink calling his name.

“Can’t a guy stop by and see how his greatest competition is feeling without it being suspicious?” Tommo asks, smirk still firmly in place.

“Seriously, Tomlinson. What do you want?”

Tommo’s face falls and Harry reminds himself that Tommo’s the one being rude in this scenario, showing up uninvited and being a general pain in the ass.

“Seriously? That was a hell of crash and I didn’t see you afterwards. I was worried.” He shifts his weight, then lifts the grocery bag. “I brought treats? In case you were up for hanging out?” A six-pack of beer dangles from his other hand.

A breeze chills Harry’s legs since he’s standing there in shorts. Tommo shivers. Harry should close the door and walk away. “Did my dad send you?” 

“What? No. Why?”

“You two seemed pretty chummy earlier. Thought maybe he’d ease his guilt of not stopping by himself, by sending you instead.”

“Oh. No. I—Sorry. This is weird. I know we’re not, like, friends, but I thought… I don’t know. I guess, I don’t know.”

“I don’t need a friend.” It comes out snappier than Harry really meant. But also it’s true.

“Whoa. Okay. Sorry. Again. For bothering you.” Tommo takes two steps back, hands in the air and lips pressed tightly together.

Tommo’s in black skinnies and a blue hoodie. With his hair down and unstyled, swooped across his forehead, and hood up, he looks young. And sad. Damn it. 

“No. I’m sorry. I’m being a dick.” Harry steps back and motions for Tommo to follow him. “Thank you. For checking on me.”

“Of course.” Tommo takes a cautious step forward. “You sure?”

“Can’t promise I’ll be good company, but you’re welcome to sit for as long as you can stand to be around me.”

And just like that, Tommo’s inside Harry’s house.

“I knew what I was getting into when I offered,” Tommo says.

Harry hobbles back to the couch as Tommo takes off his shoes. “If you want some water or something, help yourself. I’m sure you can find your way around the kitchen.” He’s still getting himself comfortable when Tommo walks in with two beers, placing one down in front of Harry. He looks around for a place to sit, since Harry’s taking up the entire couch. Too late, Harry remembers the Bio Seaweed Gel nail polish set up on the table in front of him, complete with UV nail curing lamp. He doesn’t want to draw attention to it now; there’s a good chance Louis doesn’t even know what it’s all for.

“You can move, uh, that bag.” Harry points to his dance bag on the lone chair; it’s full of tights and leg warmers and his dance belt. It’s normally stashed at the bottom of his closet, which he always chalked up to paranoia because surprise visitors randomly stumbling upon it—and his secret—was ridiculous. His heart pounds as Tommo picks it up, even though Tommo already knows that he dances. But it’s probably one thing to see him in tight-fitting sweats and a tank top teaching kids, and a whole other thing to see what he really looks like in his element. He can feel his cheeks flush. The one thing he’s scared of, and it’s over in an instant, as Tommo moves it without inspecting it at all, just drops it on the floor right next to the chair.

“What’d you bring?” Harry asks. 

Tommo pulls out a bag of Takis, a sleeve of Oreos, and a can of Pringles. “Wasn’t sure if you liked spicy, sweet, or salty while you were moping so I brought them all.”

“How’d you know I’d be moping?”

“Because you’re a damn good racer who crashed out and you don’t have anyone—me—to blame this time.”

“I’m still not over that first race.”

“You moved into my racing line!”

“I didn’t! It was my line and you were being a greedy fuck.” Harry huffs in frustration. He’s right.

Tommo laughs. “Agree to disagree on this one.” He opens the Oreos and bites one in half, before passing the sleeve over to Harry. “Oreo?”

“I think this is a ploy to attack when I’m at my weakest and to throw off my training regimen.”

“Wow.” Tommo shakes his head and finishes the Oreo in his hand. “You think that highly of me, huh?” He plucks another out and spins the top off. He licks the creme in the center, then puts the cookies back together and pops it in his mouth. “Then what’s this?” he says with his mouth full. “I’m here with you, aren’t I? Ruining my own too. Not a great plan.”

Harry grabs the Pringles can with only minor discomfort, and he gives into an afternoon with Tommo as his body morphs into one with the couch. 

“What were you watching?” Tommo motions to the commercial playing on the TV. 

“I don’t know,” Harry says. “Was going to find something. Maybe, uh…” Harry refuses to be embarrassed in his own home. He swallows thickly and keeps his eyes trained on the channel guide he’s clicking through. “Hopefully there’s a rom-com on.”

“Cool.” From the corner of his eye he sees Tommo go for another Oreo. “If you see _Grease,_ it’s my favorite. Not that it’s really a rom-com, but it’s a classic.”

Harry pauses his scrolling and looks at Tommo, who’s taking a small bite. _“Grease?_ Really?” He thinks maybe Tommo is mocking him, but it looks like he’s concentrating on his cookie.

“Why? You like _Grease 2_ better?”

“Um…”

“I mean, I’d go for Maxwell Caulfield over John Travolta, so fair play. But there’s the nostalgia factor for _Grease_ that _Grease 2_ just doesn’t have.”

“No, I… _Grease 2_ is hardly ever on.”

They fall into a comfortable silence as Harry scrolls until he comes across the last hour of _The Mummy_ and puts it on.

“Great choice,” Tommo says, pulling his legs up under himself and making himself comfortable. 

“Didn’t really take you for a romance guy,” Harry says after a few minutes. 

Tommo pulls his eyes away from the screen and looks at Harry. “I feel like I should be insulted.”

“No, I mean… No.” Harry rolls his lips tightly and turns back to the TV. 

“They’re comforting,” Tommo eventually says. “You know what’s going to happen. They all live happily ever after. Everyone gets what they deserve.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. 

They fall silent again, other than the occasional crunching of their snacks. 

It’s nice. The sitting together and not needing to talk. He insisted that Liam not come over because he wasn’t in the mood to be babied. He knows Tommo isn’t going to treat him with kid gloves. And when his dad graces him with his presence… Harry stops that line of thinking before he falls into a pit of anger again and directs it at Tommo.

After _The Mummy,_ Tommo packs up the junk food and takes it into Harry’s kitchen. He comes back with another beer for himself and a plate of cut up veggies for them to share. “Can’t totally ruin my training,” he says with a twinkle in his eye. 

They settle on _Airport_ , until they’re laughing so hard Harry starts crying because his whole body hurts. Tommo insists they change the channel, and after turning on _The ’Burbs_ they start debating Tom Hanks’ best roles. Tommo makes his case for _Forrest Gump_ , attempting to claim it’s ‘important,’ but Harry pokes holes in his argument; the movie isn’t just boring, it’s problematic as hell. Tommo dismisses Harry’s claim that _A League of Their Own_ is ‘actually important,’ but he can’t argue really against it since it’s clearly a superior movie that they both enjoy. 

So basically Harry wins, even if Tommo won’t admit it.

Eventually, with a exaggerated groan as if he were the one thrown from his bike only hours earlier, Tommo stands. “No. Styles. Don’t get up. I’ll let you get back to your nap.” Tommo picks up Harry’s unopened beer.

The tiredness he was attempting to hide hits Harry hard once he’s able to stop pretending, and he waves Tommo off with a smile. “Thanks, Tommo.”

“Louis.”

“What?”

“My friends, they call me Louis. Not Tommo.” He ruffles the back of his hair with his hand as he looks down at his feet. “So like, if you want—I mean, it’s up to you. You can call me whatever.”

Harry smiles. “Okay, Louis. See you around.” He rests his head on the back of the couch.

“Oh, Harry?”

Harry jerks his head up. 

Louis holds up the beer. “I’ll leave the rest for you, for later.”

Harry nods. He’s not going to drink it, but he’s not really in the mood to get into all that.

***

The gym at the track is nearly empty when Harry arrives. He prefers his own gym, of course, but this one has all the fancy stuff, the sauna and the ice cold pools and the snap electrodes. He doesn’t normally need or want any of that during his training. He knows other racers who swear by it, but it’s never felt necessary for him. 

But, waking up with his whole body tight and screaming at him, he knows a regular old workout won’t cut it. 

He goes into the sauna first, to get his muscles to unclench. 

Harry’s not the only gay racer. It’s not something often talked about in the media or behind closed doors even, but growing up with the same racers, from the time they were racing bicycles, word still gets around, even if he doesn’t consider any of them friends. And so maybe it’s not just the long history of bathhouses and steam rooms in gay culture that’s kept Harry from allowing himself time in the sauna at the track, but also the prickling fear that he’d be fingered as the predatory gay racer, since he’s the most feminine one, the most obviously gay guy. The one who could never hide it.

As much as his dad hated that. 

And Harry’s used to averting his eyes when he actually works up the courage to enter the sauna. Eyes down. Towel tightly in place. Minding his own business. He’s there alone, but he’s still keeping to himself. 

The moment he steps in, he can already feel the sweat prickling at his hairline. He pours another cupful of water over the coals, breathing in the flumes of steam floating upward, and grabs the knot of his towel. He sets the timer and sits down.

When the door opens only a minute or two later, he looks up, startled.

Tommo.

Tommo’s holding a hand towel over his bits, and he’s got another one slung over his shoulder, and between those flashes of white is tanned flesh. “Hey, Harry,” he says, casual as anything, as he moves the towel covering his cock and lays it out on the bench, two steps below where Harry’s sitting.

There’s a lump stuck in Harry’s throat but he eventually croaks out a ‘hey’ that could pass as casual. Tommo— _Louis!_ his brain yelps—sits on the towel he put down, then lays down. He moves the other towel from his shoulder and uses that to cover his face and head. 

Harry means to look away, he does. He really, really does. But Louis’ body, normally covered in layers of underpadding and then covered in leather for races, or hidden behind oversized layers of fashionable athletic-wear, is _right there._ His nipples are tinier than Harry thought they’d be, _not_ that he had thought about it before. And he’s got exactly zero tan lines; his whole body’s perfectly tanned and blemish-free. Harry moves his hand to cover the spat of zits that cropped up on his chin the other day, because of course of he’s a regular human being who gets zits as an adult.

And of course Tommo—Louis—is in good shape, he’s a professional athlete. But now Harry’s got proof positive of that. His thighs are muscular, and he’s got a tattoo that Harry’s never seen before, a little x-eyed smiley face. It fits Tommo’s personality so well that Harry’s heart cracks a little. There’s another tattoo too, a thick outline of a star that’s on his groin. Where Harry’s got a thick thatch of pubic hair, Louis’ smooth and tattooed. His cock is flaccid, because he’s not a creep staring at a competitor's body like Harry. Harry’s cock stirs, interested. Even soft, Louis’ still on the bigger side, and Harry pulls his eyes farther up Tommo’s body, to his washboard abs and his dainty wrists and the cursive chest piece decorating his collarbones. His whole body is covered in a sheen of sweat that makes Harry’s dick twitch.

Christ. 

Harry averts his eyes for good, staring at the wood grain and willing his dick back to total softness.

Harry has very nearly succeeded. There’s a whorl he stares at until it doubles and then there are three. He blinks it back into one.

The tinny sound of the timer hitting zero jumps Harry into action. He’s up and crossing toward the door, his knuckles white with how tightly he’s clenching his own massive towel. 

“Harry?”

Harry pauses, hand on the door, heart pounding. 

“Five more minutes?” Tommo asks. 

Harry clears his throat, turns to see Tommo up on one elbow, twisted toward Harry. His face is pink, and the curve of his waist is impossible to ignore. 

“What?” Harry asks, voice gruff. He’s not going to survive another five minutes in here with Louis looking at him like that. Eyes dark and searching.

“Can you set the timer for me on your way out? Five minutes?”

Harry clears his throat. “Right. Yeah, ’course.”

His hand’s still shaking as he pulls on his sandals and crosses the hallway toward the locker room.

***

“Five, six, seven, eight,” Harry calls out over the music. 

“No!” Doris shouts even louder. 

Harry tries his best to ignore her. All kids have days where they’re cranky and uncooperative… Harry had one of those days about a week ago. But with the way she’s alternating between not listening and being fully disruptive to the rest of the class, Harry’s hit his limit. 

“Doris,” he says quietly, walking towards her. He hates calling out kids specifically for their behavior, but sometimes it’s necessary. “What’s going on today?”

She looks up at him with her big blue eyes, and they’re immediately full of tears. Her lower lip wobbles and Harry’s aware that he has about two seconds to defuse the situation before there’s a full on meltdown on his hands. 

He kneels down in front of her and gives a smile. “It’s okay, Doris. We’ll get through it. Do you want to talk about it or—” He’s not really sure what the other option would be. If there is a meltdown, normally the adult takes the child home, but with Ernie still twirling without making a fuss, Harry would hate to have to pull him out of class too. And the wailing in the waiting room wouldn’t be any less distracting. 

“Hey, Doris,” Louis says, appearing at Harry’s side to bend down and scoop Doris up into a hug. Harry hadn’t even noticed Louis coming into the studio, but thank god he did. Doris quiets instantly, burying her head in Louis’ neck. “Do you want to play quietly in the other room?” 

She shakes her head into his neck and Louis hugs her a little tighter. 

“Then you’re going to have to listen to Mr. Harry, okay?”

She shakes her head again. “I don’t want to get down,” she cries. “I want you to ballet too!”

“You—” Louis laughs, not unkindly. “You want me to do ballet with you?”

She nods. And her tears come to a shuddering, hiccuping stop.

“I—” Louis looks at Harry bewilderedly. 

Harry shrugs. It’s a little unorthodox, but he doesn’t see the harm. “Sure. Yeah. I’m sure you can handle the basics.”

Louis shakes his butt and gives Doris a tickle. “Since Mr. Harry says it’s okay, just this once, I’ll dance with you, okay?” His tight jeans and leather jacket over a white henley isn’t dancewear, but Harry’s not complaining. He wonders if Louis’ used to dancing in in clubs in outfits like this, or if he’s more likely to sit at his booth and watch the crowded room.

She giggles as he goes to her space on the floor, next to Ernie, who’s laughing his head off. “Achoo! You don’t know how to dance!”

Harry catches Louis’ eye in the mirror. ‘Achoo?’ he mouths. 

Louis shakes his head with a smile. ‘Later,’ he mouths back.

“Okay, class, who wants to show Mr. Louis how to be a tree in the breeze?”

A bunch of hands shoot to the sky, including Doris’.

“You can’t show me while I’m holding you,” Louis teases. 

“Everyone who wants to show Mr. Louis, plant your feet on the ground,” Harry says. Doris wiggles out of Louis’ arms and lands on her feet, hands on her hips. Then she must think better of it and holds one of Louis’ hands. “Then arms up, and wave like a tree,” Harry finishes. 

Doris—and the entire class—raise her arms and moves them from side to side, wiggling her body at the same time. Doris has a tight grip on Louis’ hand, so he’s really only got one arm up, but it’s enough to show off a strip of his boxers where his shirt rides up. Harry averts his eyes, before he starts thinking about that star tattoo, and lets the class put their arms down, then has them do it twice more.

Louis spends the rest of the class with his hand firmly clasped in Doris’ and she’s perfectly well behaved until the end.

When the class finishes, the kids all run out to the waiting room, and Louis hangs back for a few minutes. 

“I hope that was okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, I mean, hopefully that won’t be an occurrence every class. But she’s been good so far, and everyone has rough days.”

Louis snorts as he rolls his ankle. “A rough day,” he says under his breath. “It’s been a rough fucking week.”

“Oh.” Harry doesn’t feel very eloquent, but he doesn’t feel like he’s any sort of right to ask any invasive questions. “Well, hopefully it gets better.”

“Yeah,” Louis scoffs. He looks at Harry and his face softens. “Thanks, for being understanding,” he says. 

***

Harry wins the tenth race of the season, and pulls ahead of Louis in the standings. 

“Harry! Fuck yeah!” Liam all but tackles him in the hallway. 

Harry grabs whatever part of Liam is closest and looks up with a smile that hurts his cheeks. He can’t stop smiling though, because he’s on cloud nine after that epic race. Every bit of it was perfect. He led for most of the laps, but there was some excitement as Samuels pulled ahead for a bit, and later Lucas was right on his tail, but he pulled through with the win. It’s the kind of race that he’d watch at home when he was a kid, screaming at the TV with a pounding heart, hoping his favorite that year would win. 

And at the end, Harry got to stand on top of the podium. 

Liam’s still hanging off of him as they stumble into his dressing room while Liam recounts his favorite moments of the race. Harry collapses onto the couch. He needs a shower, but he’s giving himself a few minutes. Liam pops a bottle of champagne and fills his glass up to the top. Harry cracks open a sparkling water and they toast to a job well done.

“H, I’m telling you, I swear my heart stopped when—” 

They both turn their heads at the knock on the door. 

“Come in,” Harry yells. 

He doesn’t expect Louis and Malik on the other side of the door, though by now he should stop being surprised.

Liam, who has listened to plenty of Harry’s rants about Louis, looks back and forth between their guests, but keeps his mouth shut. His eyes tell a different story and Harry knows he’s going to get a barrage of questions once they leave.

“Hey,” Louis says. “Great race.” He pats Harry on the back as he walks in and leans against the table.

“Hey,” Malik says too, first to Harry and then, ducking his head, to Liam.

“Celebrating tonight?” Louis asks.

Harry ignores the furrowing of Liam’s brow. “Uh. Not really,” Harry answers. Louis probably has some grand plans involving Rihanna or some pop star Harry’s never even heard of.

“Okay. Cool.” Louis shrugs like he doesn’t think Harry is a dork for wanting to stay in, and it flips something in his stomach. He realizes with a start that he doesn’t hate Louis at all. He looks quickly at Liam, then Malik, then back to Louis, and no one at all seems to realize that Harry’s entire world just shifted. 

“Want a drink?” Harry asks, pointing out the bottle of champagne and a row of glasses on the banquet.

“Sure!” Louis chirps. Malik looks like he’d rather the floor open up and swallow him whole and Harry understands because he wouldn’t mind that himself. He needs to get a grip.

Liam and Malik have the most awkward conversation Harry’s ever had the displeasure of listening in on. Something about which nuts and bolts are the best and other than Louis trying to hide a giggle every time either of them say ‘nuts,’ he and Harry sit there quietly. 

Thankfully, among the three of them they finish the bottle quickly, and Malik ushers Louis out of the room. Harry stands to walk them across the room to the door, and this time instead of a simple pat on the back like Liam got, Louis pulls him in for a dude-like one-armed almost hug and whispers in his ear, “Ernie and Dot can’t stop talking about you.” 

The hair on Harry’s neck stands on edge from Louis’ hot breath and Harry sort of wants to crumple into a pile on the floor. “See you Tuesday.”

Louis gives Harry a soft smile, and then he and Malik are gone and Liam’s closing the door behind them. 

“What was that all about?”

Harry shrugs. “Dunno.”

“Okay.” Liam scrubs a hand down his face. “I don’t believe you, but I’m not going to pry.”

It’s one of the reasons he’s Harry’s best friend.

***

“Seriously though, did someone kidnap you and replace you with a body double?” Liam’s been hard at work on Harry’s bike, fixing the front fairing that got dented during the last free practice, while Harry’s been talking to Samuels about his brand of gloves and debating the merits of more protection or greater flexibility.

“Glad you finally caught on,” Harry answers Liam. “Nice to meet you. I’m Marcel.” He sticks out his hand with a smirk on his face.

“Oh, fuck off.” Liam swats his hand away. “Don’t tell me something hasn’t changed. You’re different. You’re… social. You’re talking to other racers instead of scowling at replays on the tablet.”

“I’ve always been social,” Harry lies. He’s always been cordial, at least, especially to racers about anything having to do with racing. 

“Sure. Believe that if you want.” Liam rolls his eyes and Harry gives him a quick shoulder massage. 

Harry runs his hands over the body of the bike. “How’s it coming along?”

“Ten more minutes and you can take her out again.”

“Hey, guys,” Louis says as he and Malik saunter up to them. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much,” Harry replies. Louis’ in black skinny jeans and a raglan shirt with black sleeves, and the outfit looks so good on him that he has to avert his eyes. He picks at the hem of his own floral-print shirt. 

“Malik’s having a party tonight,” Louis says, apparently oblivious to Harry’s meltdown. It’s so confusing, thinking one thing about Tommo his whole life then finding out that Louis is actually a really decent guy. It was easier to ignore his beauty and his body and his humor when Harry had a reason to dislike him. 

“Hope you can make it,” Malik says, quietly. “Both of you.”

Liam’s head shoots up and looks toward Malik, who seems totally absorbed by his scuffed boots. Then Liam turns and looks at Harry with wide eyes.

Harry cocks his head to the side, trying to get a read on whether or not Liam wants to go. He’s never expressed interest before, but clearly there was a lot Harry was missing before. And it looks like Liam’s silently pleading with him to say yes, even though he has a perfectly functioning mouth of his own.

“You should actually come this time,” Louis says. “I promise we don’t bite.”

“Yeah?” Harry says, and it comes out as a squeaky question. Liam’s starts to nod like a bobble head doll, and Harry asks, “Yeah, what time?”

Malik and Louis snap their heads from looking at Harry to each other. If he didn’t feel like he was drowning in anxiety, he’d probably find it funny. Louis elbows Malik, and Malik’s eyes slide back toward Liam. “I could text you?” he asks. 

Liam clears his throat and slowly gives Malik his number after Malik pulls out his phone. Louis is barely containing a smile, and he gives Harry a private eye roll that’s laced with good-natured laughter. There are crinkles in the corners of his eyes that Harry finds endearing and he sticks his tongue out and crosses his eyes in hopes that the two of them will stick around a little longer. 

***

The party is not the rager that Harry expected. From Louis’ tabloid image, Harry figured there’d be models doing lines of coke and music loud enough for noise violations and crowded rooms he’d have to elbow through after losing Liam the moment they got there. 

But Malik’s house is quiet when they pull up. Liam insisted that they drive together, probably because he rightfully assumed Harry might chicken out and bail. Which was confusing because it wasn’t like Liam needed Harry by his side in social situations—it was Harry who needed Liam. But after only two pointed questions about Malik, the flood gates opened. The rest of the afternoon Liam talked about nothing else but Malik’s eyelashes, his gentleness and the way he walks, how talented and smart and gorgeous he is. And then all the different outfits Liam could wear, none of which would measure up to Malik’s fashion sense.

So as much as Harry does want to bail on the night, he’s going to be the best damn wingman he can be. It’s the least he can do since Liam’s always there when Harry needs him.

Walking up to the front door, Liam double checks the address and the time and Harry tells himself that the Louis he knows would never invite them over as a joke. It’s surreal when Louis opens the door with a glass of white wine, in loose jeans and baggy sweatshirt. 

“Hi?” Harry doesn’t mean for it to come out as a question. 

“You okay?” Louis asks, then immediately says, “Hi, come in. Glad you could make it.”

Once they’re inside, it’s clear that there are a fair number of people there; jackets are piled on a chair by the door and there’s loud chatter coming from the other room. Harry’s still adjusting his expectations as Malik appears in the foyer; he lights up when he sees Liam. Louis grabs Harry by the elbow and pulls him into the kitchen.

Louis bounces on his toes as he opens the fridge. “You don’t drink, right? Z got these faux-spritzers? But there’s also like… water, or whatever.” He turns and looks expectantly at Harry. 

“Uh, how’d you know that?”

“Know what?”

“That I don’t drink?”

“Oh.” Louis mouth snaps shut and he shrugs. “Is that…”

“It’s fine. I mean… I don’t. So… Yeah.” Harry runs his hand along the marble countertop. “I don’t think anyone’s ever noticed.”

Louis bites his lip and looks back into the fridge. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to, like—”

“It’s fine. Really. That’s— It was really nice of Malik to do that.”

Louis pulls a pale-orange fizzy drink in a bottle out of the fridge and hands it over. “This okay?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. His insides feel light and bubbly, and he bites down on a too-big smile. “More than okay.”

***

The rest of the night is similar. He finds himself smooshed on the couch between Rexha and Horan, both of whom are racers that Harry’s never actually talked to before. Horan’s an Irish firecracker, with an equally loud cackle as Rexha, but who shares Harry’s love of 70’s rock music. And Rexha’s brash and hilarious and spends an inordinate amount of time on Instagram, either talking into the camera or adding filters to pictures of her boyfriend, Luke, then passing her phone around so everyone else around her can get a kick out of him looking like a rabbit or a 90’s rapper. Harry ducks and covers his face whenever she swings the camera his way.

Time passes quickly, and before he knows it, he really does need to leave because his plan to stay for less than an hour was out the window three hours ago. He can’t find Liam or Malik, and Liam hasn’t answered his text, so Harry orders an Uber. When he gets the notification, he cocks his head in Louis’ direction, then tilts it in the direction of the door, while mouthing ‘I have to go.’ Louis stands up straight from where he was leaning against the mantel, and walks over as Harry stands. 

“Leaving so soon?” Louis rasps right behind Harry, as he leads him to the door with a hand on Harry’s lower back. 

“Yeah, don’t want to mess with my sleep. And my Uber’s here.”

“Oh! I could’ve given you a ride,” Louis says. 

“Thanks, maybe, uh, next time,” Harry says, surprising himself.

“Next time? So you had fun?”

“Yeah, I did.” Harry gives him a smile that Louis returns. “Can you let Malik know? Tell him I said ‘bye’ and ‘thanks’ too.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“I’m really glad you came tonight,” Louis says.

“Yeah, me too. This wasn’t what I expected so… it was cool, yeah.”

Harry hovers by the door, and Louis waits right there with him. Harry does need to go, but it’s easy, standing with Louis and letting the night drag on for a tiny bit longer. 

Until. “Are your fingers…”

Harry puts out a hand, catches the pale pink of his nails, and shoves his hands in his pockets. He can feel the heat rise on his cheeks and he should’ve known better than to let his guard down.

“No, I…” Louis falters. “I like it, I think it looks nice.”

Harry shrugs a shoulder. He’s sure Louis’ being kind, not honest. Which is fine, really. Harry likes his nails this shade, and that’s all that matters. He squares his shoulders and tries to keep his blush from getting worse. He doesn’t even know why he cares. It’s just Tommo, and his opinion of Harry doesn’t matter. Not as much as Harry’s opinion does. 

“We did Doris’ like that, well, hers was maybe a brighter pink, and like, I did it, so it definitely came out messier than…”

Harry forces a small smile, but he can’t muster up the energy to make it believable. Tommo must see right through him, there’s no way the smile reaches his eyes, but he’s too uncomfortable listening to Tommo ramble about nail polish to relax again. “I do have to go, so…”

“Right. Yeah. Sorry for keeping you… I just…”

“You’ll tell Malik?”

“Yeah, I promise. He’s not going to think you’re a rude scamp, leaving without saying goodbye.”

“Okay. Cool. Well. Thanks. Again.”

“See you soon?”

“Yeah, I’ll… yeah. Have a good night.”

And with that, Harry steps out into the cold night, thinking about what an idiot he is.

***

The gym’s quiet. There were only a few cars in the parking lot and Harry didn’t see anyone in the locker room, but it’s still a shock that there’s only two treadmills in use, and all the weights are free. 

His headphones are in and he turns his music up and goes to town on the rowing machine. He zones out during the repetitious movements and it’s not until the timer hits zero that he looks up and realizes that someone else is in the weight section. 

The idiot is bench pressing without a spotter and Harry rolls his eyes at the stupidity of some people. Apparently it’ll be his job now to make sure this guy doesn’t kill himself. Harry walks closer to keep an eye on him, and as the guy struggles to put the weights back on the bracket, Harry sees that it’s none other than Louis. 

Harry’s heart pounds faster as he watches him shake out his arms, then get in position to do it again. He debates with himself—on the one hand, he should stand back and be prepared to leap into action in case Louis needs it, on the other hand he wants to go over and spot him and ensure that he’s protected. It’s a battle of wills until his body starts to move without his permission and he shouts “Tommo!” as he’s speed walking across the room. 

The bar wobbles and Harry’s heart stops as he thinks Louis’ going to drop it, but he rights it, racks it, and then sits up, scowling. 

“What the fuck,” Louis says. 

“Why are you lifting without a spotter?” Harry asks as he reaches Louis and looks down on him. 

Louis jumps to his feet. “Z was busy today. And anyway, why the fuck are you scaring me half to death while I’m lifting? It’d be your fault if I lost my concentration and got crushed.”

Harry shakes his head and takes a step forward. Louis takes one back. Harry stalks forward, muttering under his breath, “So fucking stupid.” Louis’ walking backward at the same pace.

“What’s that?” Louis says defiantly. “You have something you want to say to me?”

As Harry takes another step and Louis’ heel hits the wall. Louis stands up tall. He squares his shoulders. Harry takes another step. “Promise me you won’t do that again.”

Louis juts his chin toward Harry. “Why? You worried about me?” he asks quietly. He looks Harry in the eye, then glances down at Harry’s lips. Harry’s whole body goes warm, and he rocks forward, leaning farther into Louis’ space. Louis’ deodorant is spicy and he’s got a sheen of sweat on his collarbones where his tank has dipped low. Harry takes a deep breath and remembers himself.

He steps back. “Yeah.” His voice is rough. “How can I beat you on the track if you brain yourself with some weights?”

Louis laughs, puts a hand on Harry’s bicep as he walks past. “You gonna spot me then, Styles?” He smirks over his shoulder.

It’s not like Harry ever had a choice in the matter.

Louis sits at the far end of the bench, and Harry stands at the other end. Once Louis lays down, Harry realizes what a horrible mistake he’s made. Louis’ face is _right there,_ practically crotch level. Harry tracks Louis’ eyes as they flick to his junk then directly up to Harry’s face. Louis flushes, he must know he was caught in the act, and he takes more time than necessary shaking out his wrists before he presses up. Louis taking time to compose himself is fine by Harry, since he just remembered that he decided to freeball today and Louis probably got more of an eyeful than either of them had bargained for. He casts a look around the gym and finds a pile of used, sweaty towels to stare at as he refuses to let his body betray him and get hard.

It continues to be a struggle as Louis gets into the rhythm of his reps. He grunts and loudly exhales, and his muscles strain and really Louis is, objectively, too beautiful not to notice.

Thankfully, Louis doesn’t have too more to finish, because then he’s dropping the weight noisily onto the bracket and Harry’s snapping to attention, making sure Louis is actually alright and he’s not just objectifying him. They’re friends now, Harry thinks, or close to it, and he shouldn’t be creepily staring at his friend’s body. 

“You okay?” Louis asks.

“Yeah, of course. Just… thinking.”

Louis narrows his eyes at Harry. “Thinking?”

“Oh, look at the time,” Harry exclaims, with exactly zero idea of the actual time. Maybe he should reconsider a watch… but something sleek and sporty, without any additional heft. “I have to get going.”

“Okay?” Louis smirks again, and lets out a little incredulous laugh. “Well, thanks for making sure I didn’t die lifting weights.”

“Anytime!” Harry calls over his shoulder, already running away before he makes the situation any more awkward. 


	4. Chapter 4

Harry’s fucking off, he’s got free time and a free studio, so he’s seeing how far he can push himself. He’s doing a series of fouettes in the center of the studio, spotting himself in the mirror and swinging one leg up and around his supporting leg, hoping to break his record of two in a row. From the speakers, Kurt Cobain’s loudly growling about teen spirit. Harry sees movement on the side of the room and falls off balance, turning to see who’s interrupting him. 

Louis stands at the door to the waiting room, and starts a slow clap when Harry tilts his head and smirks at him. “What are you doing here?” he asks, crossing the room to turn down the volume. 

“I was driving by.” Louis shrugs. “Saw your bike, thought I’d stop and say hi.”

Louis has a thick grey beanie covering his hair. His chest piece peeks out of his layers: a dark grey shirt covered by a light grey zipped hoodie, and his black leather jacket on top. 

“It’s just me,” Harry says, apologetically. “Thought I’d get some practice in while the studio’s dark.”

“Mind if I watch for a bit?” Louis asks. “I’ve seen you be a tree and a duck, and I’m starting to think that’s all you can do.”

Harry knows a challenge when he hears one. If Louis wants to see him dance, he’ll show him what he can do. “Yeah, alright. I’ll show you some moves.” Margeau, the owner of the studio and Harry’s first and only dance teacher, just finished choreographing his most complicated dance yet; a ball of nerves settles in Harry’s stomach at the thought of trying it in front of someone else.

He knows he can do it, but it’s one thing to teach four-year-olds how to tap their toes and it’s another thing altogether to show a grown ass adult the butterfly jump that he’s worked so hard on. He’s finally gotten enough height to pull it off. He can do it, and Louis probably won’t fully appreciate it, but he still wants to do a good job and show that the hours of practice he put in are worth something. Even if it’s just Louis clapping in the corner. 

Harry's hands shake as he lifts his water bottle so he can swish some water around in his mouth. He takes his hair out of his loose bun and shakes it out, giving himself a moment to breathe through his nerves. Even if he fucks up, it’s not like Louis will know. But he wants to nail it. 

He shakes out his limbs, hoping that Louis thinks that’s a thing dancers do, and not specifically because Harry suddenly, desperately wishes Louis hadn’t asked to see anything.

But he looks over at Louis, who’s leaning against the barre, with this soft look on his face, and Harry forces down his butterflies, hits play on the stereo, and moves to the center of the room before he can think about it any more. 

Dancing is a lot like racing in the singular aspect that when Harry is _in it,_ his whole world shrinks down to his body operating on autopilot, doing what it’s been trained to do, and all the other bullshit around him slides away. He doesn’t worry about what Louis thinks once he counts the _five, six, seven, eight_ in his head and his feet move under him. The three minutes pass in a blur, the way it does every time, but he can feel the music in him, the way his muscles operate in perfect sync. 

He comes to a stop, kneeling on one knee, his other leg bent behind him, his arms outstretched, one in front and one to the back, as the final bars play. Catching his breath, Harry chances a look at Louis. 

Louis’ slack-jawed, standing completely still. In all the time he’s known Louis, Harry’s never once seen him not moving, even if it’s stroking his thighs or rubbing his hands together while sitting on Harry’s spare chair.

Harry lifts a shoulder in an almost shrug. He’s not going to apologize for that performance, he thought it went okay. It _felt_ great. So if Louis’ going to rip him down then— 

“Are you serious?” Louis asks, incredulously. 

“Uh…” Asking Louis if it was okay is right on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down, turning instead walk toward the stereo and push away the panic of Louis’ reaction. 

“Jesus Christ, Harry. That was unbelievable.” Harry hears Louis’ footsteps as he crosses the room, and he stiffens. Louis stops where he is, and Harry slowly turns around. 

“Yeah?”

“Fucking hell, yeah. How do you even jump that high? I don’t understand how your body… does… that. What kind of witchcraft…?” Louis walks closer again, and stands mere inches away. Harry could reach out and touch if it wasn’t _Tommo_ in front of him. His fingers itch to swipe the hair out of Louis’ eyes, so instead he averts his eyes, puts his feet in a perfect fifth position.

“Thanks,” Harry says softly. There’s a pride welling up inside of him. He _is_ a good dancer, whatever Des might say about it. He can excel at both dancing and racing, he can _love_ both dancing and racing. But also that _Louis_ is proud of him. It makes his stomach do a funny little flip and settles his heart in a way he’s never known.

He can feel the blush rising on his cheeks when Louis tilts his head and asks, “Do you only teach toddlers, or could you teach me too?”

“Could probably teach you a few moves,” Harry says. He clears his throat and avoids Louis’ eyes after the unintentional double entendre. “Anything specific?”

Louis shakes his head. “I don’t know anything.”

“Okay, um, I guess let’s start with the positions? You’ll have to take off your sneakers.” He walks back to the center of the studio, Louis on his heels. Louis pulls off his shoes and tosses them on the floor in front of the mirror. “This is first.” He moves his feet so his heels are together and his feet make a V. 

Louis looks down, looks back up at Harry’s face, and copies his feet. “That’s it?”

Harry laughs. “I’m starting with the basics. We can work up to a 540 _battement en rond.”_

“Yeah, that makes sense. So what comes after first?”

“Second.”

“Obviously,” Louis says with a smirk. 

Harry moves his feet so there’s a space between his heels, but with his feet facing the same directions they were in first. “Second.”

“Nailed it!” Louis says, copying Harry’s positioning. 

Harry walks him through the next three positions, explaining things like keeping his back straight and his core tight, his bum muscles tight too, and breathing from the bottom of his diaphragm. 

“Now that I’m a prima ballerina can we move on to some harder stuff?” Louis asks once Harry deems his feet passable.

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry placates. “How about a _plié,_ _pirouette,_ and a _jeté?”_

Harry explains the _plié_ , keeping everything tucked as he bends his knees and lowers his body. And then he cracks up as he watches Louis’ attempt. Despite laughing through Harry telling him again and again that he needed to tuck, Louis still forgets—or maybe he’s being a little shit, if the smile he gives Harry over his shoulder is any indication—and squats down, ass out. It’s a gorgeous ass. One that makes Harry’s mouth water, actually, but he’s not supposed to be focused on that now.

“Here,” Harry says, stepping closer. “Do you mind if I—” He pantomimes touching Louis’ back. 

“It’s all yours.”

Harry blinks and looks down, avoiding Louis’ stare in the mirror. Louis keeps saying things like that; it’s like he’s learned how to say what he wants. And Harry doesn’t know how to deal. 

“Cool,” he croaks in a very uncool way. He places one hand on the small of Louis’ back, and the other gently on his shoulder. “Now try again.”

This time, with Harry’s hands guiding his torso, Louis does a better job. 

Louis does a few more, and then he’s ready to move on “to the turn-y thing.”

“Right, a _pirouette_ is a pretty simple turn-y thing.” Harry shows him what it should look like, then walks him through planting his foot and lifting his body, and the concept of spotting. Louis has no control when he spins, moving too fast and wobbling his way around, including landing off balance with his feet splayed in different directions. 

“Bam! Watch out, Styles, I’m coming after your job,” Louis crows.

Harry laughs. “Yeah. I’ll be looking over my shoulder. Just like I do during our races, Tommo.”

Louis’ face screws up in disgust. “It’s weird, you calling me that.”

“Everyone calls you that. I’ve called you that for years.”

“Yeah, but it’s different now.” He pauses and catches Harry’s eye in the mirror again. “Right?”

Harry nods. “Yeah, guess so.” Louis isn't wrong, but admitting it verbally feels like giving over to something he’s not ready for.

Louis looks away and Harry can’t help but feel like he said the wrong thing. Even though it’s the truth. Things have changed between them, but it’s still so new, and Harry’s brain is still catching up to what he suspects might be happening. There was animosity between them for years, and all of a sudden there isn’t. It’s like he’s doing a new move with a blind landing and he’s not sure how close the floor is. 

“Ready to leap?” he asks Louis.

Louis nods. Harry shows him what it should look like, and Louis lets out a low whistle when he lands. “And I need to get that high?”

Harry chuckles. “As high as you can get.”

“Here goes nothing.” Louis takes a flat-footed running start and does an ungraceful leap that gets him a few inches off the ground. “Well, that was terrible,” he says, laughing. 

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “That wasn’t the best I’ve seen.”

“How high do you think I could make it, if I practiced?”

“Uh…” Harry scratches the back of his neck. “If you, uh… I could— Like, show you? Like, lift you?”

“Okay,” Louis agrees easily. “What do I have to do?”

“If you stand here,” Harry leads him back to the center, “then I’ll stand… here.” He’s directly behind Louis and he doesn’t know what do with his hands.

He’s done lifts before, but not too many since he rarely dances with a partner, and he anxiety-predicts the headlines if he drops Louis and breaks his ankle. His mouth moves before he realizes what he’s saying and he’s explaining to Louis the way he needs him to jump, straight up with a strong core, legs split, toes pointed. 

Harry gently sets his hands on Louis’ waist. “You’re going to do most of the work. I’m going to steady you.” Harry can’t look in the mirror because the image of them standing so close, with such an ease, coalesces into the single thought that they look good together. 

“Okay,” Louis readily agrees. 

But it turns out that Louis is terrible at following Harry’s directions. He jumps up and out, and compounds the problem by sticking his ass out again. He’s off balance which sends Harry off balance too, trying to quickly anticipate where Louis is going to land.

Harry knows the moment they go past the point of no return and are going to crash to the floor. He does his best to not fall directly on top of Louis, and it somewhat works. He’s sprawled half on and half off Louis, their limbs in a tangle. Just like when he falls off a bike, he takes a brief moment to catalogue anything that might be wrong before moving. Louis belatedly says “oof” and starts giggling. The sound’s contagious and Harry joins in as he disentangles himself from Louis. They’re sprawled on the floor, laughing hysterically. 

“You okay?” Harry asks, once he gets enough air into his lungs. He assumes yes, but wants to confirm.

“Yeah, I’m fine, Curly,” Louis says. He pauses, and fixes his hair. “Hey, you want to get out of here?”

“Like… uh…” Harry isn’t presumptive enough to suggest it might be a date. Even though he’s realizing he’d like that quite a bit. 

“Dinner?” Louis stands and brushes his hands down his pants. “I’ve been wanting to try that new Dominican place.”

Harry stands too. Louis shuffles his feet back and forth, pressing his normally fidgeting hands tightly to his sides as if to still them. His invitation was so casual, but now Louis keeps flicking his eyes around the room instead of looking directly at Harry and he darts his tongue out to lick his lips. Harry has plenty of experience feeling awkward in his own skin, but he’s sure that he’s not nearly as endearing as Louis when he’s nervous. He’s starting to understand why Louis gets everything he wants. “Yeah. That sounds amazing.” 

***

The decision to take their own bikes to the restaurant is a good one because it gives Harry time to breathe and reassess. He runs through his feelings logically and comes to the conclusion that it’s natural that he’d start to feel things toward Louis. Louis is clearly his type; his eyes alone would probably do it for Harry, not even counting the rest of the whole… thing… he has going on. Then, not only did he not flinch at Harry teaching ballet, but he’s kept Harry’s dancing a secret from everyone they know. Harry’s whole opinion of Tommo the Party Guy has been flipped, and while there are still reasons why they can’t be together, his attraction to Louis shouldn’t be coming as a total surprise. They have so much in common, their love of racing and their competitive streaks and now Louis showing an interest in his dancing, above and beyond what he’s required to do as a big brother, so of course Harry’s going to latch on to that. He tells himself he needs to make it through dinner, then he can figure out a way to put a stop to his developing crush.

So, it’s a real problem that dinner is the best date (even as an unofficial date) he’s ever had. Louis happily agrees to order a few different dishes to split, which is Harry’s preferred method when trying a new cuisine, and he’s an equally adventurous eater. And in what’s the most thoughtful move of the night, Louis politely asks the waiter to clear away the wine glasses before he can even offer them drinks. Between the eating and the being thoughtful, their conversation flows easily from talking about the twins to reliving past races. 

And now everything’s all mixed up in Harry’s head.

They’re standing by their bikes. Harry has his helmet on his bike seat, a hand on top to keep it from falling off. Louis is telling another story about the twins, about the spaghetti and meatballs dinner he made them, the mess they made, which led to a bubble bath, which led to an overflowing tub and a bathroom full of bubbles. He has Harry in stitches by the end, impersonating the twins running around, hysterical, and Louis having no idea how to clean up mountains of bubbles. 

“You’re so great with them,” Harry says. 

“Yeah, well…” Louis scrunches his face up and looks up at one of the streetlights in the parking lot. “I guess I just spend a lot of time with them.”

“They’re lucky to have you.” Harry wonders how his life would’ve been different if he had an older sibling who spent time with him and paid attention to him, instead of resenting him for taking up all their weekends with his racing. 

Louis shrugs like he doesn’t realize what a big deal it is, and Harry wants him to understand. 

“Seriously, they are. I can see how much they adore you.” 

This time he gets a little smile out of Louis. “They’re so great. I love seeing the world through their eyes. I’m glad I get to be there to see them grow up.”

They stand there awkwardly for a moment. Dinner’s done. Louis finished his story. It’s time for them to part for the night. “Well… I guess I should…” Harry overenthusiastically motions toward his bike.

“Yeah, me too…” Louis nods along with Harry but doesn’t make any other move to leave. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow? At the gym?”

“I’ll be there,” Harry says. 

“Cool.” Louis catches Harry’s eye, and holds it for a beat. His shoulders raise when he takes in a big breath, and then he asks, “A hug goodnight?” Before Harry even has a chance to answer, Louis lets out a self-deprecating laugh and shakes his head. “Sorry, I—”

“Yeah,” Harry says, his feet stepping forward without his permission. “That’d be nice.”

Harry hunches down a little bit and takes Louis in his arms. He lets himself inhale Louis’ scent; it’s light and vaguely coconutty and reminds Harry of hot days on the beach. He knows it’s wrong, that he should let go of Louis, but he allows himself another moment of tucking his face in Louis’ neck. Instead of letting go first, Louis gives him a squeeze, and Harry relaxes into the hug. 

Time passes as Harry’s lost in his thoughts about how good Louis feels in his arms. Once it gets to the point where it might be awkward, that people walking by would notice that they’re not letting go, Harry finally releases his grasp around Louis. He doesn’t drop his arms, just lessens the hug, and after a few beats, Louis does the same. As their arms pull away, Louis looks up at him. Harry notices Louis’ eyes flick down to Harry’s mouth, and he instinctively licks his lips. By the time Harry’s glancing down at Louis, Louis is already, painfully slowly, moving in. He keeps looking back up to meet Harry’s eyes, silently questioning if they should put a stop to it. Harry’s whole body warms, a flame grows within him, once he knows what’s about to happen. 

He cups Louis’ cheek with his hand, swipes his thumb across Louis’ cheekbone, and smiles. His eyes drop to Louis’ mouth as he smiles back at Harry, a fraction of a moment before their lips finally meet in a soft, chaste kiss.

Harry lingers in Louis’ space, the flame inside him stoked. He needs more.

He lifts his other hand, places it gently on the back of Louis’ neck, and as his eyes fall closed, they’re kissing again. There’s a lot of tiny kisses, lips touching lips, pressing against each other, until finally Louis’ mouth opens, inviting Harry in. Even as the kiss deepens, it’s gentle, tentative, and Harry’s knees are weak at the thought that he’s kissing the most beautiful man he’s ever seen. Louis kisses back, tightening his hold on Harry’s waist. Harry never wants this moment to stop.

It’s the greatest moment of his entire life.

He combs his fingers through the long hair at Louis’ nape as the kiss intensifies. He feels electric, like his whole body is on edge, and he’d probably have a lot more sexual experience if any kiss ever had been this amazing.

As they’re making out, the vague awareness that he’s getting hard, that he’s pressed against Louis, who probably knows that Harry’s hard from some tongue action like he’s still in high school, and that they’re in a restaurant parking lot becomes less vague and more defined, until Louis does _this thing_ with a roll of his hips that has Harry moaning into Louis’ mouth, and suddenly all he can think about is the state he’s in… in public. 

He starts to, reluctantly, pull away, and their kiss ends a lot like it began, with a lot of closed mouth kisses. 

Louis lets out a quiet chuckle once they finally pull away, and Harry removes his hands from Louis’ body. He needs to adjust himself but wants to be discreet about it, so he wiggles his hips and figures he’ll do a better job once Louis drives away. 

“Mmmm,” Louis says quietly. “You’re a really good kisser.”

Harry preens. “You too… that was…” He wants to tell Louis everything he wants to do to him now, but he doesn’t want to overplay his hand and seem too eager. So he settles for trailing off and smiling at Louis instead. He hopes it’s not his creepy serial killer face that Gemma used to make fun of him for when she’d catch him daydreaming about his crush. He’s pretty sure it is, but Louis isn’t running away screaming and there’s not much he can do it about it now anyway.

“So, tomorrow?” Louis asks, a bit sheepishly. 

“You want to do that again tomorrow?” Harry asks breathlessly. Because that’s something he’d very much like. 

Louis’ smile breaks into a huge grin. “Sure. Yeah, let’s pencil it in after we see each other at the gym.”

Right. That’s what Louis was talking about. Obviously. 

Louis steps forward and plants a kiss on Harry’s cheek before giving him a wink, and turning around to put his helmet on. Harry’s still standing there, holding his helmet like a dolt, when Louis starts his bike, then waves, before roaring away. 

Harry can’t stop smiling the whole ride home. 

***

The smile’s gone by the time he wakes up in the morning, and the reality of kissing Tommo sets in. He considers skipping the gym, but knows he’ll feel like trash later in the day if he does. And besides, Louis doesn’t deserve that. They talked about meeting up at the gym, and Harry follows through, so he’s up and eating a peanut butter-covered banana, and out the door before he overthinks himself into a pile of goo. 

The gym’s fine. If he worries that Louis is going to pull a no-show, then it only makes him work himself harder to forget that line of thinking. So there’s a sigh of relief and a shy smile from across the room when Louis does appear halfway through his workout.

Harry refuses to get distracted though. He can’t. The idea that his season will go down the drain and his dad will find out it’s because he’s been pining after Tommo—of all people—sends a shudder down his spine. So he doesn’t change his workout. Doesn’t look over to Louis working his traps or glistening with sweat on the treadmill or working the rope machine like a monster.

He tries, at least. He figures that counts for something.

The amount of times they lock eyes from across the room frightens him. 

He considers extending his workout. Instead, when his allotted number of reps is complete, he gives one last long look to Louis—he looks fucking hot in that tank with the arms cut off—and heads to the shower. He’s not running away, Harry reasons, leaving the gym without even talking to Louis. That’s their normal, and Harry can do with a little more normal in his life.

He texts Liam on his way out of the gym, asking when he’s free to meet up. He misses him, because even if they see each other on the track practically every day, they haven’t hung out in what feels like ages. Plus, it’d be great to hang out somewhere where there wasn’t a memory of Louis ghosting about, and with how often they’ve been seeing each other, Louis has crept into every area of Harry’s life except Liam’s house. 

Harry can’t quite wipe the sight of Louis at the gym, and by the time he’s home, Harry’s half hard. 

He absolutely refuses to jack off to Louis though. That’d be taking everything one step too far when the thing he needs to be doing is forgetting about Louis in any non-racing, non-adult-dropping-off-children-at-dance-class context. Definitely not imagining him naked.

By the time Liam bothers to text back—that he’s at the track, trying a new brake pad, and that Harry is welcome to stop by—Harry’s practically paced a circle into his hardwood floors. He’s so desperate to do _something_ that even though there’s a possibility of seeing Louis, Harry’ll risk it. 

The clear morning has become a darkly overcast afternoon, so instead of his motorcycle, Harry takes his Escalade over to the track. 

Of fucking course the first person Harry sees at the track is Louis. Harry freezes, doesn’t want to seem weird, then throws out his fist for a fist bump. Louis’ smile drops into a sort of frozen grimace as he connects the fist bump, and Harry quickly walks away. He's walking away with a loop of thoughts about how he’s the most awkward person alive and shouldn’t be allowed to interact with anyone ever. 

And as Harry’s fleeing the scene, he runs into his dad. 

“I’m surprised to see you here, son,” his dad says, as though this isn’t the place where they have ninety-nine percent of their interactions. 

“Going to do a few laps; Liam has something he—”

“Yeah, he told me. Should make you more stable.” He glances down at Harry’s nails, and Harry fights the urge to clasp them behind his back to hide the chipped polish. It’d be pointless anyway, when Des has already noticed. “I’m about to take a call with Christian. But I’ll watch what I can.”

“It’s okay, Dad,” Harry tries to reason. “That’s why there’s a whole team and the data and—”

Des huffs. The technology has changed so much in even the generation between Harry and his dad that Des always forgets—or refuses to acknowledge—that there are other tools to help him race, other than the tips Des doles out. “I’ll see you after,” Des says after a beat of silence.

Harry knows his cue to leave, so he bolts while he has the chance, finally making it to the garage and a proud-looking Liam.

After gearing up, Harry takes a few practice laps, and he has to admit, the bike feels really great under him. Liam calls him back into the garage when the Doppler radar shows the rain will start to fall in a few minutes.

“Hey,” his dad’s voice is gruff as Harry pulls off his helmet. “I need to talk to you.”

“Looked real good out there,” Liam says, glancing at Des, then back at Harry. Harry throws him a grateful smile. 

Des pulls him into a conference room and sits down. Harry helps himself to three tiny bottles of water from the mini fridge then sits down too. 

“I want to talk to you about Tommo.”

Harry can feel the blood drain from his face, and he gulps down an entire bottle and opens another one before he dares to look at his dad.

Stupid. He’ll play stupid. “What about Tommo?”

Des stares at him. “We’re halfway through the season.”

“Yeah.”

“He’s having a great year. The kind of year that we can’t let him have.”

“Well,” Harry says slowly. “Tommo’s a great racer. I’m not sure what you think I can do about it.” Harry lets the ‘we’ slide.

“ _You_ can do better. I know you have it in you. You need to win, you need to place better than him, you need to knock him down a peg or two.”

“I’m doing—”

“You’re not trying hard enough.” Des looks at him, a scowl etched on his face. 

Harry’s not a violent person, but he’d really like to flip the table. “Can I go now?”

“You looked sloppy out there today.”

Harry’s jaw tenses as he swallows down what he wants to say. “I gotta go, Dad.”

“Just think about what I said.”

***

By the time Harry gets back into his jeans and t-shirt, it’s a full blown thunderstorm outside. He stands under an overhang by the entrance, staring out across the parking lot and working himself up to sprint to his car. Louis is on the other end of the overhang, his phone up to his ear. Harry’s trying not to listen to Louis’ phone conversation, but it’s hard. Even over the sound of the rain and thunder, Louis isn’t exactly yelling, but he’s loud and frustrated enough that Harry can hear him perfectly.

“I bought you the fucking car, you fucking asshole.” Louis shouts, and then hangs up. He shoves the phone in his pocket and says to himself in a mocking tone, “Fucking Uber.” 

He turns and does a double take when he sees Harry. 

“Sorry,” Harry says, even though he didn’t do anything wrong. “I didn’t mean to listen. It’s just…” He fruitlessly motions toward the rivers and puddles forming across the asphalt. 

Louis sighs and looks toward the parking lot. “It’s fine.” He gives Harry a fake smile and a shrug. “My dumbass fault really. Shouldn’t’ve rode my bike here today.”

Harry walks over to him. “You okay?” Harry moves to put his hand on Louis’ shoulder, then drops it to his side. “Can I do anything?”

“Nah.” Louis pulls his phone back out and unlocks it. “I’ll just get an Uber.” He hesitates, shifting his weight and staring back out at the falling rain.

Harry reaches out to touches Louis wrist. “No. I can give you a ride.”

Louis shakes his head.

“Louis.” Harry squeezes his wrist gently. “I insist. I’m here, offering. It’s silly to wait for a car.”

“You sure?” Louis asks. “You don’t have to.”

“I know. And yes, I’m sure.” Harry pulls his key fob out and spins the keychain around his finger. “I’ll give you a ride. But I won’t let you pick the music. Deal?”

Louis’ frown smoothes into something flat. “Alright. Thank you.”

Harry points out which car is his, and then they take off running through the rain. 

Pulling out of the parking space, Harry finally thinks to ask Louis where he lives. Louis drops his head back on the headrest with an audible sigh. 

“Or, you could come back to my place for dinner?” Harry tentatively offers. “Only if you want? No pressure, of course.”

“Harry,” Louis says, exasperated. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to be nice, if that wasn’t, uh, what you wanted.” Harry turns down the music and turns to look at Louis. “Earlier today, you looked so uncomfortable. Like seeing me was physically painful. So I’m not, like, you don’t have to pretend to like me, or whatever.”

“What? No!” The kiss was, hands down, the best kiss of his life. Not that Louis needs to know that pathetic fact about him. And he really doesn’t know how to act around him in public, because they’re not friends, and they definitely aren’t friends on the track. He doesn’t know what they are. Not friends. Not exactly coworkers. They’ve kissed, but it’s not like Louis has said that he’s interested in being anything more than not friends not coworkers. It’s not like they could be more anyway. “I didn’t expect to see you. Liam had this new… thing… to show me, and I was focused on that. It wasn’t personal. I’d really like for you to come over for dinner.”

Louis finally smiles, and seems to accept Harry’s answer. 

Once they make it in to Harry’s kitchen, the worst of the storm’s past but it left behind a pounding rain. Harry has exactly zero idea what to make for them, so he checks the fridge, freezer, cabinets, and back again while he tries to come up with a plan. “So, what do you like to eat? Besides Oreos?”

“Ass,” Louis says without hesitation. 

Harry freezes, before whipping around to look at Louis. He’s not sure if it’s a joke or not, and judging by Louis’ wide-eyed shock, Harry’s pretty sure he didn’t mean to say it out loud. As they make eye contact, they both start to giggle, and in a moment they’re doubled over trying to catch their breath between laughs. 

Finally, once Louis can speak again, he clarifies, “I’m joking. I’ll eat whatever.” And they fall into another fit of laughter. 

Harry’s watching Louis wipe the tears from his eyes when it hits him that Louis is just so… brave? Confident? Wonderful. Harry wants to learn from him, wants to be more like him, wants to fight back when he’s angry and not meekly walk away. Plus, if Louis jokes about it so easily, there’s a good chance he’s done it: eaten someone’s ass. Or had his eaten. Harry breaks out into a nervous sweat at the thought. He’s got almost no experience, sexually, and here’s this gorgeous, talented, kind, sexy guy in front of him, waiting for him to make him dinner, and Harry doesn’t feel worthy. Not that he’s even sure Louis wants to do anything else, sexually, with Harry, so he should probably stop thinking about it all together and get back to focusing on dinner. 

“Stir-fry? Chicken and vegetables?” Harry asks, sticking his head back into the fridge. “Is that alright?”

“Eh,” Louis hedges with a smirk. “Zayn’s a pretty banging cook. I doubt yours is as good as his, but I’d like to see you try.”

Harry’s up for the challenge.

The mood's relaxed as they make dinner together, Harry’s more comfortable than he expected as they work side by side and Louis teases him about small things like having baby corn in his pantry.

“I didn't know that was something you could actually buy,” he says in faux astonishment.

“Have you never been to a grocery store?” Harry jokes back.

As they’re putting together the finishing touches, Harry decides they should eat at the rarely used kitchen table. Normally he eats on the sofa watching TV, even if Liam’s over. And with his exes he always preferred to go to theirs instead of coming back to his place; Harry’s home is his sanctuary, the one place he doesn’t have to pretend to be anyone but himself, and he doesn’t like people in his space. 

After the first few bites, Louis lightly kicks Harry under the table. Harry looks up at Louis, who’s staring intently at his food as he eats. Harry gives him a gentle kick back, hoping it’s soft enough that Louis knows he’s returning the action, and not asking him to stop. Louis tries to hide his small smile by taking a bite, but Harry catches it anyway, then has to stop his own small smile from becoming a dopey grin. Eventually, about halfway through the meal, Louis finally looks over at him. It’s so much worse, because Louis’ face is intense and soft, and he makes so much eye contact that Harry feels like he’s being heated from the inside out.

Harry clears his throat. “So who wins?”

“Who wins what?” Louis shovels another bite into his mouth.

“The stir-fry competition. Me or Zayn?”

Louis takes another bite and he tilts his head back and forth as he chews. “You gave him a run for his money, but I think you just eked out a win.”

“I knew it!” Harry raises a fist in victory.

“The real question is,” Louis puts down his fork and takes a drink of water before continuing, “how are your fajitas?”

“Oooh, I make a mean fajitas. Willing to bet they’re better than Zayn’s too.”

“Fighting words! Okay, I’ll be the judge of that next time.”

Next time. Harry liked the sound of that. 

When they’re done eating, Louis helps to bring the dishes back to the sink. Harry’s about to turn the water on when Louis reaches his hand out and holds Harry by the elbow. Harry swallows as he turns; Louis is _right there_ and it’s like his hip can feel the heat from Louis’ body. Harry pulls his eyes up Louis’ torso, pausing at his thin lips, before traveling to Louis’ eyes. Once he sees the heat there, his gaze goes right back to Louis’ lips. Louis brings Harry’s arm closer, and Harry follows, taking a small step so they’re toe to toe, and then leaning down to meet Louis’ tipped-up face.

The kiss is really soft at first, like the previous night in the parking lot, as they reacquaint themselves with each other’s mouths. Louis backs Harry into the counter as the kiss intensifies. Harry nips at Louis’ lip and his hands start to wander: across Louis’ shoulders and down to his biceps, a steadying hand on his waist, then slowly moving lower and around to the back, and when he finally cups Louis’ ass in his hands, Louis lets out a moan that goes straight to Harry’s dick.

Harry hips press into Louis’.

Harry’s so hard and rutting against Louis with enough pressure that he knows if they keep at it, he’ll come in his pants. It feels so incredible that he can’t bring himself to stop. Louis stops kissing his way across Harry’s jaw, and with a hand to Harry’s chest, puts a few inches of space between them. 

“I’m gonna—” Louis’ breathing is heavy and his cheeks are pink and Harry’s on a loop of _because of me._ “Can I blow you?” Louis looks up at Harry, bright blue eyes blinking, and Harry wonders how anyone ever says no to him. 

“Fuck. Yes.” Harry’s trying to remember the state of his bedroom; he’s pretty sure there are dirty briefs on the floor, but maybe Louis will be too distracted to notice. But before Harry can lead him down the hall, Louis is already on his knees and licking his lips. 

“Yeah, okay, sure,” Harry says stupidly as he wraps his head around what’s going to happen at the same time that Louis unzips and pulls down his pants. Louis gives a grunt of what Harry hopes is appreciation.

Louis starts off slow at first, nuzzling into Harry’s pelvis and planting a kiss on his hip bone, then taking the tip into his mouth and getting it nice and wet. Then he takes in more of Harry’s cock with ease. Louis bobs his head in a smooth rhythm, while running his tongue along the sensitive spot under the head. Harry fists his hand in Louis’ hair, while Louis’ tight, hot mouth works him over. Not surprisingly, it’s the best blow job Harry’s ever had, but a part of his brain can’t shut off and he keeps thinking about the last time he mopped his kitchen floor. Not that Louis is focused on anything other than Harry’s dick, and besides, Louis’ eyes are shut, eyelashes spread prettily. But Harry’s knees would be killing him, and then he gets wrapped up thinking about that, as Louis licks and sucks and looks so stunning kneeling in front of him. By the time Harry’s got his hands knotted up in Louis’ hair, he’s so far in his own brain that he’s worried he’ll never come. He’s sure Louis’ jaw must be dying. 

Harry takes his hands out of Louis’ hair and places one on each shoulder. “Hey,” he says, his voice still low and affected. He clears his throat. “Wait a sec. Come up here.” He does his best to haul Louis to his feet, but ends up mostly steadying him as Louis stands on his own. 

“Sorry,” Louis says so softly that Harry’s brain needs a quick second to interpret it. Louis’ eyes are darting around the room, looking at everything but Harry. Then he spins so his back is to Harry and presses his palms to his eyes. “Sorry. Sorry. I thought…” Louis mumbles. 

“What?” Harry touches Louis’ bicep, trying to get him to turn back around. “What are you possibly sorry for?” 

Lous makes a choked off whine in the back of his throat. “For, uh, not being very good at it. For not getting you off?” Harry cocks his head in confused silence because _what?_ “Sorry if you didn’t like it,” Louis tags on. 

“What? No. Noooo. Fuck, Lou.” He stands directly behind Louis’ back and wraps his arms around him. He’s still so hard and he presses himself against Louis. “You are… fuck, you’re so good at it. I’ve just… never in my kitchen before. It’s always… in a bed. Like, your knees. I couldn’t stop thinking about them. And then your jaw when I wasn’t coming but, oh my god, it felt so good.”

Louis hasn’t moved, he’s stock still. 

“We can…” Harry keeps talking. “Bedroom? That’s what I was going to suggest. If I haven’t totally made this way too awkward.” He'd be more comfortable there. Harry’s still met with silence and with a bolt of horror he realizes he might’ve fucked this all up. “I get it if you want to go. Sorry, I just, was worried about you.”

Louis takes a shuddery breath, then turns and buries his head in Harry’s shoulder. Harry thinks he might be nodding, but he can’t tell. 

“You alright, Lou?” Harry whispers. 

“Yeah. Bedroom. Good. Let’s do it.”

“Okay. Are you sure? We—”

“I promise I’ll be better.” Louis says, linking their hands. 

Harry scoffs. “It’s you. Of course it’s going to be great.” Without letting go of Louis’ hand, Harry leads them to his bedroom. “You don’t need to be better.”

It’s surprisingly clean once he opens the door, but at this point he’s almost totally sure that it wouldn’t have mattered to Louis anyway.

Harry leads Louis to the bed, where he sits as Harry pulls his shirt over his head. Louis watches him and fists at the sheets. 

“Are you sure?” Harry asks. Louis looks a little like he’s in the principal’s office ready to be scolded. “We really don’t—”

“I’m sure,” Louis says. “I just… you’re so beautiful.”

Harry drops his shirt to the floor and joins Louis on the bed, pulling Louis on to him so he’s straddling Harry’s hips. The weight of his body grounds Harry. “What do you like?” Harry asks between kisses. 

Instead of answering, Louis kisses him harder.

“Louis,” Harry moans as Louis nips and kisses his way across Harry’s jaw toward his ear. Harry’s dick is interested again, and he presses it into Louis’ thigh to reassure him that he’s into this. 

He’s really into this. 

“Louis, you feel so good.” Harry’s pawing at Louis’ back, already trying to pull him closer, trying to get his hands on every inch of Louis’ body. “Off. Off. Can you—”

Louis must understand because he sits back up, and pulls his shirt off. He flings it to the floor and Harry takes a moment to appreciate all that’s laid bare in front of him. He’s wanted this since he saw Louis naked in the sauna, but seeing the heat in Louis’ eyes as Harry runs his hands down Louis’ chest, tweaking Louis’ tiny nipples and watching him squirm, digging his thumbs into the lines of his abs as Louis tries not to laugh, it’s all so much better than Harry imagined.

Harry moves his hands lower still, one planted firmly on Louis’ hip, the other teasing his inner thigh. Louis shivers under his hands and his thigh muscles twitch. “Good?” Harry asks. “This is okay?”

Louis whines, nodding his head, and Harry’s bolstered by the way Louis is falling apart above him.

“You’re so beautiful. Can’t believe you want to…” Harry’s distracted by the way Louis bucks his hips, and Harry’s fingers itch to touch more. 

“Wanna take these off too?” Harry asks, snapping the waistband of Louis’ black sweatpants. He knows Louis has a perfect cock, and he wants to finally get the chance to lick the star adorning it. 

Louis nods and moves to get off Harry, but Harry catches him off guard and flips them, so he’s hovering above Louis laying on his back. Harry inches down Louis’ sweats to find that Louis’ gone commando, and Harry’s already licking Louis’ hip bones as he pulls the offending pants down farther.

He shoves them off to the side once they’re off, and for the first time notices Louis’ ankles. “They’re perfect,” he mumbles against them before kissing the bone and drawing a finger up Louis’ leg, making Louis wiggle below him.

“Can I finger you?” Harry asks. Harry loves getting his partners off with his hands, has gotten positive feedback in the past, and he wants to make this so good for Louis. He stares down at the inked star next to Louis’ dick, then traces it with his finger. “Bet you’d look so pretty writhing on my fingers.” 

Louis arches off the bed. “Yeah, please, anything,” he says into his arm. At least, Harry’s pretty sure that’s what he says. Harry takes Louis’ arm away from where it’s hiding his face, and asks again. Louis nods. 

“So quiet,” Harry observes. “Can’t say I expected that.” He kisses Louis, deep and dirty and thorough as they rut against each other. 

Harry works over Louis’ body, inspecting and laving attention over everything he’s only been able to see until this point. He runs his tongue over the bumps of Louis’ ribs, kisses the head of Louis’ dick, tastes the drop of precome, teases the hair in the dip of his armpit, sucks a mark on his calf as it’s hitched on his shoulder, then finally he can’t wait any longer, his cock is so hard, he wants to cry as he gets his mouth on that tantalizing tattoo. Harry delights in the way Louis squirms under him, bucking his hips and twisting to get away as Harry sucks a bruise and kisses all over the dark lines. Once he’s satisfied, he sits back on his heels and looks over the work of art below him. 

“Still okay?” Harry asks as he gets the lube from his night table. 

Louis nods again, teeth digging into his lower lip. Harry can’t decipher the look in his eyes, so he curls up in Louis’ arms. 

“You sure?” They kiss gently and Harry gets lost in the sensation of their bodies moving together. He adjusts so he can get a hand around himself and gives it a couple of tugs. “We can stop anytime,” Harry says.

He doesn’t want to stop, all he wants in this moment is to watch Louis come. But he needs to know that Louis wants it too.

Louis shakes his head.

“Louis, baby, I can’t read your mind. I think you’re into this? You seem to be enjoying it, but…”

“I am. Fuck,” Louis groans as he bucks his hips again. “Want it so bad. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

Harry smiles. “’Atta boy.”

He slicks up his fingers as he kisses Louis again. He loves kissing Louis, could do it happily for the rest of the night, listen to his little noises and feel him moving against him until their next race.

Louis’ rim clenches when Harry swipes the slick against it. Louis’ feet are planted on the bed, knees up, and Harry kisses his kneecap. He pets at Louis’ thigh to help him relax, gives a low “that’s it” when Louis relaxes, and Harry’s able to slip his fingers in. Just up to the first knuckle, opening him up and seeing how he reacts. Harry takes the moan and the way his hips flop open as a good sign, and pushes in another inch. 

Louis has thrown his arms over his face again, so Harry measures his pleasure by the slow undulations of his hips. Harry works his fingers in until he can’t get any farther, then sets out to find Louis’ prostate. The squelch of lube and Louis’ panting are the only sounds in the room until Harry finds what he was looking for and Louis clenches tight around him and whispers “there.”

Harry focuses his movements, applying pressure as he twists and rubs. When Louis’ thrashing below him, and exhaling long breaths he keeps holding, Harry adds his mouth. He gathers his spit so it’ll be nice and wet, then takes as much of Louis’ dick as he can.

Louis cries out quietly, and Harry figures he must be close, with how hard he is and the way his whole body tenses. Harry keeps up his rhythm until Louis clenches tightly around him and Harry stills his fingers but doesn’t let up on the pressure. Then Louis’ spilling in his mouth, hot and salty, and finally letting go, whimpering and whining as Harry works him through his orgasm.

Harry keeps his mouth where it is, lapping occasionally as Louis comes down. Then he pulls out his fingers and gives the crown of Louis’ dick a kiss.

Harry grabs a wet wipe from the night table and gives his hands a cursory wipe, then kisses Louis because he can’t get enough. 

“Was that okay?” Harry asks. He needs to know. 

“H, I can’t feel my toes. That was…” Louis kisses him again, slow and careful. “Fuck, that was so good.”

Harry hides his pleased smile in Louis’ shoulder.

“Wanna make you feel good,” Louis slurs. “Want to finish what I started.”

“Please,” Harry moans.

Then Harry’s on his back and Louis’ between his legs and the world stops spinning as Louis sucks him down.

Harry loses himself in it this time. Louis’ mouth is so wet and tight and talented that all Harry can do is hold on to Louis’ head and let the sensation roll over him.

He gets close ridiculously quickly; his excuse is that he’s been hard for ages, but in reality he’s pretty sure it’s because Louis’ so enthusiastic. 

“Lou,” he tugs on Louis’ hair, “I’m gonna—” he loses the rest of his sentence to a loud groan as Louis flicks his tongue against the underside of his cock while rubbing the head against the top of his mouth. 

“Fuck. Fuck.” Harry’s whole body tenses and he tries to stave off the oncoming wave of pleasure, but it’s fruitless.

Harry cries out as the orgasm rocks through him, and whimpers through the aftershocks. 

Harry can’t help but pull Louis into another kiss. It’s addictive, the feeling of their bodies together.

“That was fun,” Harry says.

Louis stands up to grab a tissue from the box on Harry’s dresser. “Should I go?” He waits in the middle of the room, covering his dick with his hand. 

“No? I mean, if you want. But I’d prefer if you stayed and cuddled.” Harry sits up and puts a hand out to Louis, coaxing him back to bed.

With a smile, Louis comes back to him. 

They’re facing each other, legs twisted together, and sheets up to their armpits. Harry props his head up on his hand, his elbow planted on the bed. “I really am sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to make it awkward. Or to make you think you weren’t giving me the best blow job I’d ever received.” 

“It’s not…” Louis idly fingers the butterfly tattoo on Harry’s stomach. “I know you won’t, but promise you won’t laugh?”

Harry brings Louis’ hand up to his lips and kisses the back of it. “I won’t. I wouldn’t.” 

“I’m not a slut. I don’t, like, sleep around, very often? Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” he’s quick to clarify. “But this might make it seem like I am, and for the record, I’m not. But uh, like, all of my other hookups have been like, in bathrooms, or like locker rooms? Or like, quick and hidden closeted kid stuff back in high school.” Harry’s heart cracks oddly, thinking of anonymous dickheads walking away when they’re done with him. “Um, but in the kitchen, like, that’s what I’m used to. Not…” He pats his hand on the bed.

“How’d it measure up?” Harry asks with a halfhearted smirk, knowing Louis is going to see through to his insecurity. He’s glad to have been able to give Louis something different… but maybe quick and easy is what Louis prefers. 

Louis smiles at him, eyes crinkling. “Everything I thought it could be.”

Harry drags his foot up Louis’ calf, overwhelmed and thrilled. Louis’ eyes are closed and he looks so relaxed in Harry’s arms. Hooking his ankle around Louis’, wanting to keep him close for a little longer, Harry thinks of what to say. He’s sure Louis’ thinking of this as a casual one off, and Harry doesn’t want to veer into territory that feels too romantic. Especially because they can’t date as competitors. 

“Hey Lou,” Harry says jokingly, even though he’s not at all joking. “I hope you know this doesn’t mean I’m going to take it easy on you on the track.”

Louis cackles and twists Harry’s nipple. “You better not.” 

***

Going into the fourteenth race, Harry qualifies with a stellar time, beating the previous track record by three seconds. Unfortunately, Louis does too, and on the last segment of the track he pulls out a startling lap time, beating Harry by almost eight tenths of a second.

The only positive about starting behind Louis is at least he’ll get to stare at Louis’ ass. 

But Harry’s definitely not going to think about that. Instead, he runs through his start in his head, practicing pulling the clutch and popping it into gear in perfect sync so it’ll be flawless. He’s behind Louis in the standings by twenty-one points, and if he keeps racing smart, he can keep that lead slim. 

Despite all the practice, and visualization, he has a shitty start. The only saving grace is that Louis’ start is rougher than his, and Harry manages to pull ahead, slightly. Horan, however, has an amazing start and zooms past both of them. 

Harry and Louis battle for second place for the majority of the race. They both keep making stupid mistakes and leapfrogging each other. Races like this stress Harry out, because there’s so little room for error. Any mistake could be the one big enough for Louis to pull away. 

One moment Louis is right on his tail, leaning into a curve and making Harry sweat, and the next Mendes and Rexha are side by side behind him and Louis’ trailing after them. 

It’s only a few curves later when someone leans over the barriers and holds up a sign with the neon letters LT OUT. 

Harry wobbles, caught off guard, and Rexha speeds past him.

He hangs on to third place until the end of the race, defending his spot from the rest of the racers, and cursing that he can’t find an inroad to get back Rexha so he can put real pressure on Horan.

Harry absolutely hates when he finishes at a lower spot than he started, even if it’s only one. It’s infuriating letting others get the upper hand. He tries not to sulk on the winner’s platform, but he was so amped for this race and thought for sure this one would be his. 

Liam meets him off the platform and walks silently with him back to the paddock. He knows when Harry needs his space. 

“What happened to Louis?” Harry asks, trying to sound as neutral as possible. 

“Eh. He went into the corner too hot and lost the rear.”

Harry hums. He can’t give away that he’s gutted by Louis DNF. The whole day is shitty, really.

Liam rolls his eyes. “You’re friends now. It’s okay if you care.”

Harry scoffs and puts a fist to his mouth, faking a cough. “We’re not friends.”

“I hate to break it to you, Harry. He might’ve cracked that unbreakable exterior of yours.”

Harry shakes his head. It might possibly be true, but Liam doesn’t need to know exactly how far under Harry’s skin Louis has gotten. 

“Okay. Sure. Hey, I tried a new dish—aloo keema—and made way too much of it. Want to come over tonight for leftovers? Data and Pakistani food.” Liam wiggles his eyebrows. “I really want to go over lap five with you.”

“Pakistani food. That an interest of yours all of a sudden?”

Liam bites down a smile. “Might be.”

“Might be because of an unfairly beautiful engineer?”

Liam blushes and shushes Harry, telling him to lay off. Harry does, for a few minutes at least. 

They turn the corner and pass by Louis and Malik walking in the opposite direction. Louis’ scowl is a mile wide and Malik winks at Liam as they pass. Harry gives Liam a wide-eyed ‘I saw that and we’ll talk about it later’ look and Liam throws back the most threatening look he can muster.

They’re still in the hall when they hear a thump behind them. Harry turns around to see Louis shaking pain from his hand before he disappears into his dressing room.

Liam gives Harry a look and Harry keeps his mouth shut.

“Zayn’s cool,” Liam says as they get to the press conference room, halfway down the long hallway. “Apparently Tommo’s been busy lately. Zayn’s had some extra time on his hands.”

“Zayn?” After the press conference he’s going to get more than a blush out of Liam.

“Louis?” Liam counters.

“Right.” Harry’s still not giving anything up. He stuffs any feelings he has down, wipes his face of expression, and walks into a room full of reporters.

The press conference is terrible because his suit’s getting itchy from dried sweat and he’s desperate for a shower and to wash the race off of him. And to eat. He’s fucking starving and after Liam’s dinner proposition all he wants is a bowl of something warm and spicy. The only good thing about coming in third is there are fewer questions directed his way and he can get away with letting his mind wander while the other two do the heavy lifting. 

Unfortunately, the thing he can’t knock out of his head is the thought of Louis punching the wall as he turned into his dressing room. He doesn’t know Louis well enough to know if he should go comfort him if he’s pissed off, or if he should back off and let Louis deal with it on his own. Not that it’s Harry’s responsibility to comfort him; they’ve shared one kiss and one… more than a kiss. Fuck. He still can’t believe Louis laid himself bare like that for Harry. Harry adjusts himself in the uncomfortable folding chair and hopes it’s subtle enough that no one cottons on to what he’s doing. 

When the Communications Manager brings the press conference to a close, Harry shuffles out of the room with all the other riders and finds his dad waiting for him. 


	5. Chapter 5

Des grips him tightly by the elbow and drags him a few steps, like he’s a delinquent child.

“What the fuck, Dad?”

Des launches into a tirade about fuel wastage that Harry’s not in the right headspace for. It wasn’t his best race and he knows that, and he’s pretty sure that the fault doesn’t lie in how quickly he used up the gas. And, he came in third. _Third._ Not last. Not even middle of the pack. It’s like Des can’t cut him even an inch of slack. 

Harry’s already beating himself up and replaying the race in his head. The corner where he should’ve pushed harder to pass Rexha. Spending too much time clocking how close Mendes and Breslin were in his rearview. 

He zones back in just in time to finish listening to Des’ opinions on how he threw away the whole race because of something he did on the fifth lap. Harry shrugs. Because what else can he do. Other than throw his hands up and shout that he and Liam—the one actually paid to improve his race times—will talk about it after he eats a goddamn sandwich and peels off his racing gear. 

He and Liam will meticulously go through all the data later so he can see where he actually fucked up and not just where Des thinks he did. The race has ended so it’s not like they’ll accomplish anything at this moment anyway. 

“At least Tommo had a fucking terrible race. Small blessings, right?” Des punches his shoulder and Harry balls his fists. “If he keeps racing like that, he might as well hand you the championship.” Des laughs, like that’s actually funny or even in the realm of possibility. 

“He’s still winning,” Harry says, annoyed. Because he does want to win the championship. But he wants to win it because he’s the best racer, because he deserves it. He wants to be recognized for _that_. And he doesn’t want anyone mentioning Des when he does win. It’s an impossibility though; Des will always be mentioned alongside of Harry. And on the opposite side, Harry’ll be a footnote in Des’ story if he never comes close to filling his father’s big shoes. 

“But you closed the gap significantly today. You’ve got a real chance now.”

Harry shakes his head. There’s still five more races and anything can happen and no good ever comes from talking through hypotheticals with Des. 

“If you don’t fuck it up, you could bring in some real money next year.”

Harry sees red and takes a moment to compose himself before he does something stupid like decking Des.

Thankfully, Liam exists and walks by at just the right moment. Harry grabs onto him like a literal lifeline and says, “Sorry Dad. Gotta go. See you later.”

“Lap five!” Des yells after them.

“Fucking took you long enough, Payne,” Harry grouses. 

“Wow. Hi. ‘Thanks, Liam. It was really kind of you to pull me away from that agonizing conversation. What have you been up to for the past hour?’” Liam levels him with a stare as Harry continues, “‘No problem, H, that’s what friends are for! I’ve been with the video team cutting highlights for us to watch tonight.’”

“Shit, sorry Liam. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. He’s just such a dickhead.”

“Yep. And you’ve got to find a way to keep him from getting under your skin.” Liam tosses an arm around Harry’s shoulder and leans in close. “Third place not good enough?”

Harry manages a self-deprecating laugh. “Never.”

“For what it’s worth, I think you had a great race. Mendes was in rare form and this is his kind of track, and your defense was aces. Best we could’ve hoped for, really.”

That wasn’t quite the level of positivity Harry was looking for; Liam not having faith in him to get better than third. 

“I need some time,” Harry says, a bite in his voice. “I’ll call you later.”

Liam pats him on the shoulder again and takes off down the hall, whistling. All Harry wants is to turn off his brain so he can shower and eat in peace, before talking more about this stupid race. 

He’s just about to open his dressing room door when he hears Louis bark “Styles!” from where he’s peeking his head out of his dressing room down the hallway. Harry looks up and down the hallway and once he’s confirmed no one else is around, he walks toward Louis. Louis shakes his head and mutters “for fuck’s sake.”

Harry follows Louis, who’s already in his street clothes, inside his dressing room. It’s an exact replica of his own, except with different colored gear strewn about. 

Louis slams the door shut behind him, rattling the flimsy walls.

He pushes Harry down on the couch and straddles him. 

Harry’s still unprepared for the kiss when it happens. It’s rough from the start. Louis twists his fingers into Harry’s curls and holds him where he wants him. Harry sits back and lets it all wash over him. Louis squirms and Harry’s still trying to wrap his head around what’s happening. Louis rolls his hips and presses his ass down in Harry’s lap with a whine. 

The noise brings Harry back to reality: they’re in Louis’ dressing room and they can’t do this. Harry pulls out of the kiss, and pushes Louis away, but not off his lap.

“We can’t,” Harry says, looking over to the door.

Louis gives him a long look; Harry wants to look away, but more so he wants to figure out what Louis is thinking. Then with an arched brow, Louis climbs off him, locks the door and stands with a hand on his hip. 

“I—” Harry falters. His heart thunders at the possible fallout if they’re caught. His dad would be furious, more so than normal. Harry’s not even sure what they are yet. But Louis stands there with a frown and a challenge in his eye, and Harry’s never been one to turn down a challenge. He’s always wondered what it would be like to have someone to expend pent-up energy with after a race, and fuck it. He wants Louis. Harry throws his head back and surrenders. “What the hell.”

Louis unbuttons his jeans.

Harry scrambles to stand, peeling off his leathers and the undersuit, and by the time he’s done, Louis strides over to him in his tight black underwear. Harry’s half hard and they haven’t even done anything yet. Harry meets him in the middle of the room, in a rough kiss that’s teeth bumping and heart pumping in its ferocity. 

Louis is hard against his thigh, and suddenly the whole day catches up with him and he just wants to be taken apart. 

“Let me fuck you,” Louis says, punctuating the question with a nip of Harry’s lower lip.

If Louis wants to work off his aggression this way, Harry’s on board. “Yeah,” Harry pants. “Do you have stuff?”

Louis nods emphatically and brushes the hair off his forehead. Harry leans against the side of the couch, drinking in the curves of Louis’ body as he muscles through his gym bag. Louis huffs out a loud breath when he holds up the two foil packets, his annoyance still plain on his face.

“Where do you want me?” Their dressing rooms are nice enough, but it’s not like there’s a bed to spread out on.

“Right there.” 

Harry looks down at the couch and back to Louis.

Louis walks over, and with a dirty grind of his hips pulls Harry into a rough kiss. It doesn’t take long for Harry to get fully hard, and Louis is there, grunting into Harry’s mouth as he too hardens between their bodies.

“Turn, turn,” Louis whispers. Harry does what he’s asked, turning his back to Louis and pressing his palms down on the side of the couch to support himself. 

Louis yanks down his underwear, and palms at Harry’s cheeks. 

One of the packets rustles as it’s opened and Louis hisses as he slides the condom on. Harry turns his head and bounces in place, impatient. Louis uses his teeth to rip open the lube. Then he’s slicking himself up and Harry braces himself. Louis’ slick finger wipes the excess lube across Harry’s rim. 

Louis steps up behind Harry and lines himself up. With his chin, he pushes Harry’s head so he’s looking straight ahead, then he easily hitches Harry’s hips back. He’s got a steadying hand on Harry’s waist as he dicks in, slow. Harry’s head is reeling from how fast they went from scowling across the hall to fucking. Every time Louis lets out a breathy, broken-off keen, Harry’s cock twitches. It’s the hottest sound he’s ever heard. Harry breathes through it. The frantic energy between them momentarily stills as Louis slowly fills him. Harry half appreciates the careful, slow thrust in and half almost can’t stop squirming back and fucking down he’s so eager for it.

Once he’s balls deep, Louis rests his head on Harry’s back for a few long deep breaths. Harry squeezes Louis’ hand on his hip, he’s ready for it; he wants Louis to help him forget the race, to work off the disappointment, to fuck away the frustration.. 

Louis keeps his motions steady, taking his time pulling out and pushing back in until the slide’s easier and Harry’s relaxed around him. “Come on, do it,” Harry snaps. “Fuck me.”

With a grunt Louis slides in, rougher. It punches the breath out of Harry.

“Again. Again.”

Louis takes the cue and snaps his hips, giving it to Harry hard. Harry cries out when a particularly rough thrust has him losing his balance and folding over the side of the couch. Louis doesn’t let up, pressing a hand to Harry’s back and holding him in place. It’s exactly what they both needed, their bodies in perfect sync as they use each other to grind and grunt and thrust until they’re sweating and shaking. 

Harry cries out, his cock trapped against the rough fabric below him, and Louis digs his fingers in, gripping Harry’s hips like he’s afraid Harry’s going to escape. Harry’s sure he’s going to have bruises, something to remind him that this isn’t just a fantasy, something he can prod at when he’s getting himself off, an echo of this madness. It’s on the wrong side of uncomfortable and he can’t get enough. Nothing else exists in the world, every synapse firing is focused on the hot breath panting in his ear, and the strain of his muscles holding his position and the mounting pleasure building deep inside. Nothing else exists. No one expects anything else besides his ability to stand there and take it.

Louis grinds against his prostate and Harry cries out again when Louis pulls back out. “Quiet,” Louis commands, and stuffs his fingers into Harry’s mouth. They taste bitter but his mouth still waters around them. Louis fucks back in, rough. Harry’s yelp is muffled.

Louis fucks dirty and ferocious, and Harry gets lost in the sound of slapping skin and squelching lube. 

Speeding up, Louis’ movements become erratic, his hips not able to keep a steady pace as he gets closer to coming. Harry realizes Louis is going to come in him, and even sheathed, Harry finds that ridiculously hot. He jams his hips back to meet Louis’ thrusts. Harry sucks on Louis’ fingers, soothing against the punishing pace and the soft cry of pleasure as Louis stills and his cock flexes inside him. Harry clenches around him as Louis pushes in weakly as he finishes.

Louis presses a kiss to Harry’s shoulder and pulls out, replacing his cock with his fingers. “Can you come like this?” he asks.

Harry nods. He’s so close, getting roughly fucked over the side of the couch in Tommo’s dressing room. He cries out as Louis finds his prostate.

Louis is thorough and precise in his fingering, like he is in all things, Harry realizes. Harry groans as Louis keeps the pressure right where he needs it. But it’s not exactly what he wants. 

Harry lets the fingers slip from his mouth. “Want to come on you,” Harry says.

“Can I trust you to stay quiet?” Louis asks.

Harry nods. He probably would’ve agreed to anything, on edge and desperate to come. Louis pulls his fingers out of Harry’s ass and drops to his knees in one graceful swoop. Harry would’ve been grateful for any patch of skin Louis was willing to dirty up, and his knees go weak at the vision of Louis, head tipped back, a sheen of sweat at his hairline and dotted across his upper lip, cheeks flushed, and staring up at Harry, waiting for what Harry’s going to give him. 

Harry only needs to yank at himself a handful of times before he can’t contain it anymore and he’s spurting white onto Louis’ face while staring down at the spray of his eyelashes and the sharp angle of his cheekbones, and with a startling clarity he knows what Louis looks like covered in his come. Louis’ hand is pressed against his It Is What It Is chest piece as it heaves.

***

Louis drops his wallet, phone, and jacket in a pile on the floor, and makes his way across to the barre where Harry was stretching, and is now standing stock still, awkward in his own skin.

Visiting the studio when Harry has it all to himself has become a common thing for Louis. He doesn’t always come—plenty of times he was watching the twins or doing his own training or living his own life—but it’s no longer a surprise when the door opens and suddenly Louis’ eyes are on him. So Harry was hoping he might stop by, while battling the worry that he wouldn’t. They haven’t talked since Harry came on Louis' face.

“Louis. Oh. I’m so— Well, I’m glad you showed. I wasn’t sure…”

Louis freezes. “Should I not have…? I can go.”

“No,” Harry yelps. He meets Louis where he’s standing. “Not unless you want to. I wasn’t sure if… since the last time we… I hoped you were okay, after… you know.” Louis’ brows are drawn in so Harry continues. “I wrote and deleted like twenty texts. Seems like something we should talk about face to face.”

“I— Sorry. What? Did I do something wrong?” 

“I did. Didn’t I?” Harry asks.

“No,” Louis draws the word out in obvious confusion. “Why would you think that?”

“Because I came on your face, without asking,” Harry says, horrified. 

After Harry came all over Louis’ pretty face, Harry pulled his clothes back as Louis stalked over the sink and cleaned himself off. Louis’ face was still set in a scowl when he turned around, and Harry quickly left to shower in his own dressing room. He hadn’t been in the mood for any serious conversations.

Later that night, soaking in his tub, Harry panicked, fully thinking through everything they had done. Harry didn’t bottom often, especially during the season and then the image of Louis’ fierce, dirty face assaulted him. He felt sick.

“So?” Louis says. “That’s just what… it’s fine.”

“I don’t normally do that,” Harry explains anyway, even though Louis is relaxed and seems okay with it. “It feels like a bad porn move or something.”

“Oh.” Louis steps back, looking like he’d been slapped. He opens then closes his mouth.

“Fuck. Fuck. No. I don’t mean, like—”

“It’s cool,” Louis says, even though it’s very clearly not. Louis won’t meet his eyes.

“Sorry.” Harry reaches out and Louis allows him to hold a hand. “I didn’t mean to compare you to a… not that there’s anything wrong with… but… urgh.” Harry gently cups Louis’ chin with his fingers and has Louis look at him. “That hasn’t been on the table with the other guys I’ve been with. I don’t even think I knew that was something I wanted. So it took me by surprise. The whole afternoon took me by surprise.” Louis’ eyes lose their bewilderment but his jaw ticks. “It’s not something I normally do, is all I’m trying to say, so I wanted to check in. Make sure we were okay.”

“Okay.”

Harry lets go of his chin and Louis immediately looks away. 

“No. Lou, please. Tell me what’s up. What’s wrong?”

“Who worries about that?” Louis throws his hands up. “You’re so far out of my league. It’s like…”

Harry laughs wryly. “You do know who you are, right?”

“But, like. I’m not… I don’t know how to do that stuff, like, in a sweet way. Fuck, like…” Louis brushes his hair off his forehead. He looks down at his toes. “You’re the first person I’ve been with, more than once.”

“Oh.” Harry has never experienced a one-night stand.

“‘Oh’ is right.” Louis scuffs his shoes against the floor. “So if you want to ‘make love,’ maybe this—”

“All I want is to make sure we’re on the same page.” Harry isn’t ready for Louis to walk away from him. “For you to enjoy it. For _us_ to enjoy it. It doesn’t have to be like, rose petals and ballads playing softly in the background.” 

“Yeah?” Louis’ eyes are bright again and Harry’s heart soars.

“Yeah. If you want me to jerk it on your face again, sign me up. You looked fucking incredible covered in my spunk. But if that’s how you think it has to happen, and you don’t really like it, I’m really quite happy to come, like, anywhere in your general vicinity.”

Louis laughs. His real one, not the one that he uses during pressers or with sponsors. “It’s like, all I know.” Louis must clock Harry’s confusion because he’s quick to clarify. “Not literally, but I like I said before, it hasn’t been like this before. So, I just don’t know? But I—we—could keep exploring? If you’re up for that?”

It’s possible Harry has a honesty kink. Or maybe just a general Louis kink because he’s got to adjust himself before he’s gets a full-on boner in the dance studio.

“I’m up for it.” He drags Louis into a hug that Louis sinks into after a brief moment, then Harry presses a soft kiss to his lips. “But I do have to get some hours in here. Can you stay? Keep me company? Or do you—”

“Yeah, I’m free. I’m here, aren’t I?” Louis tweaks Harry’s nipple and then scampers away before Harry can dole out retribution. “It’s cool if I sit here?” he asks, like he does every time. 

“Yep.” Harry turns the stereo on and lowers the volume since Louis’ there too. “I’m working on a new routine, so don’t judge too harshly.”

When the song ends, Louis erupts into applause and Harry takes a small bow at the same time as he rolls his eyes. He’s still getting used to someone other than his dance teacher paying any attention to him, and he can feel how awkward he is when Louis praises him. 

Louis goes back to looking at his phone as Harry rehearses certain eight-counts and combinations that he knows he messed up during the first run through. 

“Hey, H, can I ask you something?” Louis says after a while.

“Yeah, sure.” Harry squares his shoulders for another _grande pirouettes à la seconde._ “What’s up?”

“It’s about your dad, actually.”

Harry falls of out of position. “Oh?” he asks carefully as he turns to look at Louis. Louis’ legs are drawn up to his chest, he’s hugging them to his body, and he’s pulling his bottom lip into his mouth. 

“It must be great, having a dad who can advise you on this stuff.”

Harry’s nostrils flare. “What stuff?”

Louis unfurls his legs, placing his elbows on his knees as he leans forward. “I don’t know, things you can do to improve? Or like… just to have someone to talk to about the pressure.” His eyes are fixed over Harry’s shoulder, and he’s twisting a hair tie that was left on the floor around his fingers. “Nevermind. I guess it’s stupid.”

Harry scoffs, and Louis finally looks at him, his mouth set in a frown. 

“You don’t have to make fun,” Louis says defensively. “Zayn’s my only— Whatever. Forget I said anything.”

“No. Sorry. I wasn’t laughing. It’s like…” Harry falters. His dad supportively listening about the pressure he’s placed under would be amazing. But that’s definitely not his reality. “My dad’s a dick.”

It’s Louis’ turn to scoff. “He’s a legend, obviously.”

“Just because he’s a legend doesn’t mean he’s a nice guy or a good dad. Those things are not the same.” Harry puts his hands on his hips. Louis looks up at him then back to the hairband.

“Yeah, I guess I can see that.” Louis looks like he’s choosing his words carefully. “He’s always congratulating me, and the other guys. He’s so positive around the track.”

“Lucky you,” Harry says. 

“He’s really not like that with you?”

“Nope. He’s never one congratulated me on a race. He’s not a positive force or whatever you said. Not in my life.”

“He’s always pulling you aside though, talking you through things. You’re always so focused afterward.”

“Louis.” Harry tries to rein in his temper. He can’t storm off like the last time Louis tried to talk about his dad. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. He pulls me aside and tells me how awful I am. All the things I’m doing wrong. There’s nothing positive about it.”

“Oh.” Louis blinks up at him, apparently rendered speechless. “What?”

“When I say my dad’s a dick, I don’t mean like, stupid strict shit like he got angry if I missed curfew as a teenager. I mean like, always pushing, has never said anything nice, constantly belittles me, drove my mom and sister away, thinks I’m a piece of shit, type dad.”

“No…” Louis shakes his head. 

“Never once has he complimented me. Never once has he said he loves me. All he’s worried about is his legacy and how I’m letting him down by being girly and not being as good of a rider as he is.”

Louis bites his lip. “At least he’s around?”

“Seriously? Fuck you, Lou. ‘At least he’s around.’ My father _hates_ me. I’m nothing but a disappointment to him.”

Louis takes a deep gulping breath and nods his head. “Sorry. That’s not… I don’t mean to make it a competition. I just… Seriously, your dad is here. He cares about how well you race. I didn’t know he treated you that way.”

“Pretty sure he loves his liquor more than he loves me. Did you know that, huh, Louis? That your hero’s basically a functioning alcoholic?”

“I— I’m sure I just didn’t want to see it—didn’t let myself see it—but the fact that your dad is there at all? Father of the Year compared to my dad.”

Harry’s heart sinks. He’s always thought that he has the worst dad of all time, that nothing could be worse than having a father constantly critiquing him. But as Louis crumples in front of him, Harry can see that he might be wrong. 

“Your dad’s a piece of shit too?” Harry awkwardly chuckles. “Shitty dad club.” 

“Yeah. You could say that.” Louis shrugs, and counts off on his fingers. “In and out of my life, uses my name to his advantage, has stolen tens of thousand of dollars from me, uses the twins as pawns to keep me in his life, never once has he come to watch a race, or supported me in any way.” He looks Harry in the eye. “So yeah, piece of shit.”

Harry groans. “Fuck.” That sucks. “Sorry, Lou, that you have to deal with that. You don’t deserve that.”

Louis shrugs, but Harry thinks he’s playing it off as less important than it is. “Now that I’m an adult and can acknowledge that he—and my mom, honestly—are never going to do right by me, it’s easier to deal with. The twins though…” Louis pauses long enough that Harry’s not sure if he’s going to continue. Then he says, “The twins still think he’s great. They’re the only reason my parents are in my life at all. Someday they’ll be grown and I can cut my parents out completely.”

“It’s great that you’re there for the kids. That they have a good adult looking out for them.”

“Yeah.” Louis gets a far away look in his eye. “Like, sometimes, they’ll just drop them off at my house and then fuck off. The twins think they’re coming over for dinner and won’t get picked up for a week or two. It’s so fucked.”

Harry stands awkwardly, pigeon toed, unsure if he should comfort Louis. 

“Doris’ meltdown during that one class… It had been a very hard week for all of us.” 

Harry wants to give Louis a hug, but that feels too intimate for what they are. It feels like a boyfriend move. And they’re not boyfriends. They can’t be— 

“I’m sorry,” he says, as though any of that is his fault or it in any way makes up for what Louis has to deal with. 

Instead of moving toward Louis, he turns and walks to the table where his iPhone’s connected to the stereo. He scrolls through songs without processing any of the titles.

“Have you ever, uh, talked to your dad about it?” Louis asks. 

Harry rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “He’d blow me off like he does with everything. Say I’m overreacting. There’d probably be some misogynist shit about how I’m not acting like a man. Same as always.”

“Maybe not,” Louis hedges. “Maybe if you tell him how much it bothers you, he’ll stop. He’s always… level-headed, I guess I’d say, when we’ve talked.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Harry says, fully dismissing the idea. The way he treats others is never the way he’s treated Harry, as they’ve already discussed, so Louis’ point is moot.

“For what it’s worth, it might be worth a shot. Stand up to him, let him know how it makes you feel.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.” Put like that, it sounds so easy. Harry’s gut clenches at just the thought of it.

It’s Louis turn to laugh sardonically. “Years of therapy. Abandonment issues. I don’t recommend it.”

“Well,” before he says it, Harry realizes it’s true, “I’m glad my dad is there for you. I know it’s not the same, but it’s cool that he’s like… a mentor, or whatever.”

“Yeah, I guess. Sucks now though, knowing…”

“Look, me and my dad’s issues are just that, me and my dad’s issues. You don’t have to feel bad about anything.”

“Still…” Louis nods, thoughtful. “Promise me you’ll think about it though. Standing up to him? Telling him how you feel? You might be surprised. And if nothing else, I doubt it’ll get worse.”

Harry shrugs. Louis isn't _wrong._ But he needs time to process everything that he’s just learned. 

“Okay!” Louis chirps. “Enough talking about depressing shit like shitty dads. I have a question I’ve wanted to ask you since I learned about this.” He motions towards the whole dance studio. “Which do you love more, racing or dancing?”

Harry groans, with a smile on his face. “Impossible! You can’t make me choose.”

“Okay, fair enough. You can love them equally.”

“Thank you!” Harry throws his hands to the sky then falls down in a heap at Louis’ feet. “You’re the first person to ever say that. Other than me, of course.”

Louis nudges him with his toes. “Tell me.”

“Um…” Harry has to think. He’s never vocalized any of this before. “Um, I think, there’s something like, really cool, in the way that you train and train and then it’s muscle memory. And um, there’s the same focus, what comes next, how close to the end, making sure every part of your body is exactly where it needs to be at the exact right time.”

“Makes sense.”

“Yeah, I mean, clearly are there more variables in racing,” Harry gently kicks Louis, “the chance that someone will run you off the track.”

“Hey!” Louis erupts into laughter. “It’s not like I did it on purpose!”

“I know.” Harry gets serious again. “Guess I like striving for perfection. Finding the perfect lines. Sticking the perfect lines. Seeing how hard I can push myself.”

“It’s working. Kicking ass and taking names, that’s what you’ve been doing this season.” There’s a teasing glint in Louis’ eye. “Might even be a contender for the championship.”

“Oh fuck you, Tommo. You know I’m always a contender.”

“Yeah, guess you are.” Louis pulls him in for a quick kiss, then gently shoves him away. “Now go finish your leaps and do your cool down so we can go get dinner.”

“If by dinner you mean chicken and vegetables, you should come to mine.” 

Louis pats his butt when he stands, and Harry gives a little wiggle as he walks away. 

“My man’s so talented,” Louis says, just loud enough for Harry to hear. Harry turns around but Louis is already staring down at his phone, and Harry wonders if Louis even meant to say that, or maybe Harry misheard, or maybe, his brain short circuits at the idea, if he, in fact, is Louis’ _man?_

He thinks it over as he practices the leaps, but doesn’t come up with a substantial answer, other than this is another conversation he needs to have with Louis, on another day, when he’s not already emotionally drained.

***

“Harry,” Liam says, from where he’s lying underneath Harry’s bike. “How do you know if you’re dating someone?”

“Why?” Harry asks, suspicions raised. “Who did you talk to?”

“What?”

“What?”

Liam rolls out from where he was working and shakes his head in disbelief at Harry. “Zayn. I’m talking about Zayn.”

“Hush.” Harry looks around, even though Louis’ bike—therefore Zayn’s—is stationed at the other end of the garage.

“What the fuck, Harry. It’s not a secret that I’ve been hanging out with Zayn.”

“Yeah, but…”

“But what?”

Harry sighs. “Nothing. Nevermind. Okay, let’s take this from the top.”

“What?”

Harry sighs again. “You say, ‘Harry, how do you know if—’”

Liam laughs. “You’re impossible. Okay. From the top. Harry, how do you know if you’re dating someone?”

“What a great question, Liam,” Harry says with fake sincerity. “I don’t know, man. You hang out on a regular basis… not as friends?”

Liam looks confused, and Harry feels for him. That line between friends and more-than-friends seems like it should be stark and easy to decipher, but now it feels like a tangled knot. Crossing from one side to the other, hand in hand, with the other person should be easy to navigate, but instead it’s like a dark room, and Harry’s not sure on which side of the line he’s on, let alone where the line is, let alone where Louis is. 

“And,” Harry continues, “you hook up, if you’re into that sort of thing.” Not that that bit of advice helps much either, friends can help each other out, sexually, and still remain just good friends. Liam blushes furiously and so Harry has that answer to a question he didn’t ask. “You talk to them. I don’t really know. When you hang out, does it feel like dates?”

“Sometimes? I guess?” Liam answers. “When he taught me how to cook, that felt… date-like, I think? Like, he touched me a lot. But sometimes it’s just… talking about races over dinner.”

“Are you getting a vibe from him? What’s your gut telling you?”

Harry knows, as much as he’s trying to ignore it, what his gut is telling him. But Liam’s always had better instincts, so Harry could be way off base. Even though laughing over shared plates of mofungo and tostones, making shy eye contact, having Louis watch him dance… it feels different than hanging out with Liam. But, they’re rivals, in a traditionally masculine sport, with whole teams counting on them to remain focused and professional. He absolutely cannot get involved with another racer as more than friends. Even if they are friends who occasionally play with each other’s dicks.

Even if his heart is screaming something altogether different. 

His heart’ll just have to fall in line with his head.

He needs to talk to Louis, to make sure that this _thing_ between them is as casual for him as it has to be for Harry.

“Yeah.” Liam pulls Harry out of his own problems with a worried look. “I know what I think it might be, and I know I should talk to him. But, my problem is, what if he’s doing a friends with benefits thing and I’m just hoping it’s more and I totally freak him out by suggesting that it’s more from my side?”

“Or maybe you’ll be on the same page and then you can take him out on an official date and then you’ll definitely be dating.” Harry shoots him an optimistic smile. 

“Does that ever work out for anyone?” 

Harry laughs. “I suppose it’s got to sometimes.”

***

All through dinner with Louis, Harry worries about the conversation he keeps not having. It’s been days that his stomach has been in knots. One he started worrying about it, he couldn’t stop, and a million different scenarios have played out in Harry’s head.

Harry obviously enjoys the benefits part of their friends with benefits situation and he doesn’t want that to stop, but since they’ve never defined this _thing_ between them, he’s worried the friends part might be at risk if he rocks the boat. And Louis’ friendship is more important to him that he ever could have expected. For years he knew Louis as Tommo and had previously framed every interaction with him as nothing but a competitor. That’s still how everyone sees them. But now Harry knows that Louis just _gets_ him, and Harry can truly be himself around Louis. He can count on one hand, and have fingers to spare, the number of people in his life that meet that criteria.

He planned to talk to Louis first thing in the morning, but then Louis slept in so Harry didn’t see him until they were at the track, and Harry was most definitely not going to have the discussion there.

They saw each other at the kids’ ballet class, then Louis had to drop the twins back at their parents’ house, which turned out to be a whole thing, ending with Louis bringing the twins back to his place so Harry met him there instead of at Harry’s.

It isn’t until the kids are in bed that Louis and Harry finally get to sit down for dinner.

“Harry. Earth to Harry.” Louis waves his hands in front of Harry’s face. 

“Hey. Yes. Hi. Sorry. I’m here.”

“You okay?” Louis’ asks. “You’ve been out of it all day.”

“Sorry. Yeah. I’ve just been thinking…”

Louis whistles lowly. “That sounds serious,” he says conspiratorially. 

The words won’t come.

“Oh.” Louis straightens up and concern colors his face. “That serious, huh.”

Harry can’t do this. Louis is the first person who has ever just _got_ him. If it wasn’t for them being competitors, this wouldn’t even be an issue at all.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were breaking up with me,” Louis jokes.

Harry whines. “Lou.”

Louis’ eyes go wide with shock. “Oh, fuck. Harry. Don’t.”

“I mean… I can’t… I can’t break up with you if we’re not dating, right?”

Louis lowers his fork and sits back in his chair. “What do you mean?”

“We never really… defined… what we are.” Harry watches Louis’ face harden as he talks. “I want to make sure we’re on the same page.”

“What page is that?” Louis says.

“Friends with benefits?” Harry says meekly. He knows immediately that’s not the same page Louis is on. He’s not even trying to save face and pretend that’s what he wants.

“Why would you think that?”

“Um… because.”

“Because why, Harry? We’re not exactly friends.”

“We kind of are? Now? In the past, we weren’t. But now, I think of you of a friend. You’re the only one who knows… stuff… about me.”

“Because I accidentally found out about how you spend your free time? That’s hardly a start to a friendship.”

“You didn’t tell anyone.”

“Because I’m not an asshole. God, Harry, what the fuck.”

“And you don’t… want to be friends with me?”

“Harry. I want to date you. Exclusively.”

Harry can feel the tears welling in his eyes. Louis’ making this impossible. 

“But…”

“You thought I took you to dinner and we kissed in the parking lot like friends? That was not a friendly kiss. We had sex, in your bed. I’ve slept over! You do all that with your friends? Because I sure as shit don’t.”

“I…” It’s not like Louis is wrong. “No. But.”

“I know I haven’t said anything but we literally have no time to date other people? We’re racing and you’re dancing and I’m dealing with my family and seeing you… when would I see anyone else?”

Harry shrugs. He does have a valid point. “I guess I just figured…”

“Figured what, Harry?”

“That when you went out, like, clubbing? Or at Malik’s parties? That there were… others.”

Louis’ eyes flash in anger. “At Zayn’s parties? You’ve been there! It’s hardly a fratboy kegger. Where would I even— And clubbing? You _know_ me.” As he speaks, Louis’ hands shake. “You think I’m clubbing on the regular?”

“The tabloids—”

“The tabloids?” Louis shouts. “Fuck you. Honestly. A guy makes some shitty decisions when he’s eighteen and the press latches on. I haven’t been out like that since the twins were born. Since before then! After my parents stole all that money, I stopped going out, tried to be more present. Aware of the business side and— Whatever. You don’t care about— Fuck you, Harry.”

“I didn’t…”

“So what was this for you? Slumming it for a few quick fucks?”

“No.” Harry says softly. “It’s not like—”

“Then what’s it like. Huh?”

“I didn’t expect…”

“What? That I would have any feelings for you? Because. Fuck.” All of Louis’ indignation slides away. He tucks his tongue behind his teeth and lets out a huff of laughter. “You just want to make sure I don’t have feelings for you, since you clearly don’t have any for me.”

It sounds cruel, the way Louis says it. Harry didn’t mean it that way… he just… wasn’t thinking.

“This all just… happened.”

“You need to leave.”

“But…” Harry needs to make a last-ditch effort. “We can be friends, right?”

“No, Harry. We can’t.”

“Why? Am I— Why?”

“Because, Harry. I tried that before. I wanted to be your friend. For ages. And I eventually gave up because apparently you don’t do friends. So I stopped. Because that’s what you wanted.”

“Then why…”

“You’re going to make me say it?”

“I’m just trying to understand.”

“I’ve had a crush on you for as long as I can remember. You were just… untouchable… like a… I held you on such a pedestal. You’re gorgeous. The most natural rider I’ve ever seen. Fiercely protective of Liam. Knowing you’re all of that and more? Also so kind, and funny, and… and nice? On top of everything else?” Louis wipes angrily at his eyes. “I’m not going to be your _friend_ while you’re out there fucking other people. I used to be able to compartmentalize, before you came along. Like, I imagined that I could break through all your walls? That might be the one who… if you just took a chance on me? If you just got to know me… that things could be different. But… clearly I was wrong. About everything. So…”

“I—”

“Harry, seriously, you need to leave. We’re not… I have no interest in being your friend now.”

“Oh.” For what Harry tried to tell himself was just some harmless sexual release, seeing Louis’ face is like a vice on his heart. “Okay.”

Harry slowly rises from the table, hoping against everything that Louis will change his mind. He knows it’s fruitless, that he’s fucked everything up. He wouldn’t give himself another chance either, knowing all that. “It won’t work… us dating… with the races and…”

“It’s been working.”

“But—”

“What? Long term it won’t? You don’t know that. It’s fine if you’re scared, or whatever. I can do scared. Throwing myself at you… I had to make myself be brave. _You_ make me brave.” 

Harry opens his mouth to say that Louis made him brave too, then thinks better of it. He’s not brave enough for Louis. He never has been. 

Louis nods. “Cool. Well, if that’s all, you can show yourself out.” He hastily picks up his plate and Harry’s and stomps off to the kitchen. 

“Fuck,” Harry swears quietly. In all his imagined scenarios, it never went this off the rails.

His heart beats wildly in his chest on his ride home. For years he’s been wrong about Louis. He assumed the worst back when Louis asked to hang out, or go to the clubs, assumed he just wanted to know him because of his dad, or wouldn’t accept him once he knew who Harry really was. He didn’t know how wrong he was.

Harry gets home and crawls into bed. And spends most of the night staring at the ceiling, hating himself.


	6. Chapter 6

“Harry, I need to talk to you.”

Harry exhales slowly. “Dad—” Harry turns to face him. “It’s not a good time.”

“You’ve been saying that all week.”

It’s been a really shitty week. Since ending things with Louis, Harry has barely slept. And one of the things he was stressing about, seeing Louis everywhere, he needn’t have even worried about. After having a solo routine in his life for years, not seeing Louis at the gym each morning should be fine. But Harry’s eyes still search him out and his heart still cracks dangerously when he knows Louis isn’t going to show. 

One of the four-year-olds stopped him mid-class and took his face in her tiny hands and said, “Mr. Harry, you look sad.” It was probably good Louis wasn’t there to see that, even though he hated the thought of Doris and Ernie missing out on a chance to dance because of him. That’s the very opposite of what he’d ever want. 

It didn’t particularly help that Liam’s suddenly busy too. Not that Harry is going to begrudge him finding happiness with Zayn, but still, all it’s doing is highlighting what an isolated life Harry created for himself. 

“It’s been a busy week.” Harry raises his eyebrows in a silent threat for his dad to question him. 

His dad’s jaw tenses. “Are you busy right this second?”

“Yes.” It’s not even a lie. “Free practice starts in a few minutes. Liam’s waiting for me. And I know you don’t want to risk me doing poorly this weekend.”

“I’ll find you when you’re done.”

Harry turns to leave, muttering “I’m sure you will” under his breath.

In the garage, he sees Louis and Zayn hunched over Louis’ bike. It feels like they’re staunchly ignoring him. Plenty of times Harry and Liam are in their own world, purely focused on what’s directly in front of them, so it might be a coincidence. It still makes something ugly curl in Harry's stomach. He misses Louis fiercely and hates the piece of hair blocking Louis’ face from Harry’s vision. He’s like an addict craving one last hit, and it’s so far away.

Luckily, Harry’s able to focus all of his frustrated energy into the practice, and he has the best time of the afternoon. His theory that Louis is avoiding him gathers strength when he realizes Louis only went out on the track when Harry wasn’t out there. Louis apparently wasn’t even going to risk catching a glimpse of him.

True to his dad’s word, he’s waiting in the garage for Harry to dismount. Harry’s escorted to his dressing room like a criminal, his dad’s hand digging into the meat of his shoulder. 

“What, Dad? What did I do this time?”

Once Harry offers to answer whatever questions he has, Des falters. “I don’t really know how to ask this…”

“Dad.” Harry has negative patience for whatever game Des is playing with him. “You’re not one to be shy.”

“I know, but this is a sensitive topic.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I’m not quitting ballet, Dad. I know you think—”

“Shhh.” Des looks around like maybe someone’s hiding in Harry’s dressing room. “It’s not—”

“Dad!”

“Alright. I heard the most ridiculous rumor. I know there’s not a kernel of truth in it, but I need to hear it from you.”

Harry’s heart thuds. He’s been keeping to his routine—the last time his dad was this worried about a rumor, he had caught Harry trying to switch up his diet without telling anyone. The only thing that’s changed recently is—

“Are you and Tommo…” Des presses his lips together. They go white around the outside. Harry’s not about to prompt him, to give him any more information than he might already have. “Are you and Tommo,” this time Des drops his voice to a whisper, “dating? Seeing each other? Going out? Whatever you kids call it these days?”

Harry presses his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Kids,” he scoffs.

“Harry.”

“Where would you even hear something—”

“Harry Styles. Answer me.”

He’s not sleeping with, dating, or seeing Louis. It should be easy to answer his dad. But he can’t bring himself to say it. 

“You know I’m okay with you being,” Des looks around and whispers again, “gay.”

Harry nods sharply. And barely refrains from rolling his eyes.

“And I want you to be happy.”

Harry scoffs again.

“You can see whoever you want, in your spare time. You’re a grown-up and I know I don’t have any say in the matter. But you’ve got to know how it’d look, right?”

Harry pushes his hair back behind his ears. Then he picks up a hairband from the table and twists his hair up in a messy bun. “I’m not.”

Those words, _how it would look,_ ring in his ears. He paces, as his heart drops to his stomach. He’s going to be sick again. “I’m not,” he repeats. “I don’t know where you heard—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does. But it doesn’t change that I’m not seeing Louis. He—”

Harry wants to confess that it’s all his fault. The guilt’s his to bear alone and it’s only getting harder. He threw away the best thing that ever happened to him, for the stupidest reason imaginable. Hearing his dad say it out loud confirms how ridiculous it is. But there’s no one to help him. His dad wouldn’t understand. Wouldn’t care. Would think it’s a good thing and pat him on the back. The only person who ever really _got_ Harry is Louis. The tears are coming again, so he needs to get rid of his dad before he sees any chinks in Harry’s armor. 

Harry turns his back to his dad and walks to the door, opening it for Des. “If that’s all you need—” 

“Yeah.” Des nods. “That’s it.” He stands and walks over to Harry. Harry looks away. Des pats him on the back. “You looked good out there today.”

Harry nods, waits for him to walk out. After closing the door, he slides to the floor and lets out a sob.

***

Harry dismounts from his bike. Liam’s not there to meet him on the pit lane, which is odd. He pushes the bike into the garage and puts it on the stand before pulling off his helmet and undoing the top most part of his leathers for comfort.

Liam’s in the far corner, gesticulating wildly and talking to Zayn, so Harry doesn’t want to bother them. It looks important, whatever it is.

Rexha walks by, and Harry lifts his hand to wave as she passes. But she pulls up short, then turns on her heel and faces him. “Is it true?” she asks. 

“I—” Harry’s still not sure where his dad heard the rumor about him and Louis. The rumor mill has always been alive and well for everyone involved in the sport, but rarely did the rumors hold much truth. And mostly they’re about team trades and back room drama, very rarely did Harry catch wind about a racer’s personal life.

She stood, popping her gum and waiting for him to answer. 

“I… what? Is what true?”

There’s a better than average chance that actually whatever rumor she came to him about is actually about Des. Harry knows better than to play his hand too early. 

“That you’re a ballerina?”

Harry’s heart stutters at the question, and the wind’s knocked out of his gut. He stares at her, unable to formulate a response. All those nights he spent lying in bed, preparing for this moment, and everything—every single word he knows—flies out of his brain. “Uh…”

He swallows down the panic he’s feeling. His dad is going to be furious. He’s going to be a laughingstock. It’s a literal worst nightmare coming to life. 

“Oh, sorry, is it like… is there a dude version of a ballerina?”

“Ballerino?” Harry says, though mostly he thinks people just say ‘male dancer.’

“Cool,” Rexha says. “You’ll have to show me your moves sometime.” She pops her gum a final time and saunters away. 

“So it’s true?” Horan asks. Mendes is standing right behind him, listening in. 

Liam’s stalking across the room, his face set in a scowl.

“Um… yes?” Harry says. He can’t take his eyes off Liam, who looks furious. He’s seen this look before, but it’s normally because another team is trying to steal a design or the lugnuts he special ordered from Italy are going to deliver a day later than promised.

“Harry,” Liam says between clenched teeth. “We need to talk.”

Harry nods, and waves bye to the others before he dutifully follows Liam out. Liam pulls him into the nearest conference room. Harry sits, because he’s willing to bet that Liam’s about to lay into him. 

“Harry—” Liam places his hands on the table, then takes them off and turns his back to Harry, before turning around again. “I consider us friends. I know you’re… private… about a lot. So maybe you don’t consider me a friend—”

“Liam.” Harry hates the sad look on his face. “You’re my best friend.”

Liam’s face looks pained for a moment until he steels himself and blinks away the softness in his eyes. “That’s fucked, Harry.”

Harry bites down hard on his lip. 

“I can tell by your reaction that it’s true. You look like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, waiting to get punished.”

“It’s a little bit true, isn’t it?”

“Why— What— Okay, why… why did you keep this from me? I’m your… fucking hell, your best friend, and what, you still didn’t trust me?”

“I do—”

“Clearly you don’t!”

“It’s… complicated?” 

“Bullshit.”

“My dad— I don’t know, Liam! I wanted to… it’s hard.”

“Try me.”

“I’m not supposed to do anything other than race. I’m not supposed to be feminine. I’m not supposed to love to dance—ballet! Of all things. It’s… it’s embarrassing.”

“Harry.” Liam shakes his head. 

“It’s not that I thought you’d tell. Or like, make fun of me or whatever. You’re… the best. The literal best, kindest, most uplifting… I didn’t not say anything because of you. It’s me. It’s my shit.”

“Look—” Liam falters, then he pulls up a chair and sits next to Harry. “I get that you have a boatload of issues from your dad and your family and… I get that. I’m not… Well, yes, I am upset about…”

“Sorry.” Liam wasn’t supposed to find out this way. Harry would’ve told him… eventually. On his own time.

“Harry. Do you know what my job is?”

“Yeah, of course you—”

“Do you know much time I put into figuring out your diet? Your workouts?”

“Of course. You—”

“Don’t. If you’re aware, if you _know_ and you’ve been skewing that data? How many more calories do you think you burn while you’re dancing? And the muscle groups. Harry, what the actual fuck. You _know_ how important this is.”

“I know.”

“And you just… have lied to me. Not by omission, but straight up lied to me when we’ve talked about what your training should look like. You’ve set me up for failure.”

“I—”

“You what? You’re sorry?”

“Yeah, I—”

“No. Sorry, but I can’t right now. I can’t deal with you until after I cool down.”

“Okay.” It stings, but Harry understands. He probably wouldn’t want to be around him right now either if he was Liam. He shakes his head, frustrated with himself. 

Liam pushes the chair back and walks out with a heavy sigh.

“Li?” Liam stops at the door. “I really am sorry.”

“I know.”

Liam closes the door behind him and Harry bangs his head on the table. 

***

Harry paces back and forth along a stretch of wall back behind where trailers park. He doesn’t want to believe it. He walks one way and convinces himself that there’s no way it was Louis. He walks the other way and convinces himself that despite everything he knows about Louis, there’s no one else who it could be. It was Zayn whispering to Liam in the corner right before he confronted Harry. 

He’s been back and forth a hundred times and is no closer to settling on a side. 

There’s only one other possibility. 

Harry pulls out his phone with a deep sigh.

Dad  
  
**Harry:** Did you tell anyone? About my dancing?  
  
**Dad:** no  
  
**Harry:** They know  
  
**Dad:** What do you mean, they know  
  
**Harry:** at the track. Everyone knows.  
  


Harry waits. He eventually pockets his phone, done waiting for his dad to respond. It was a stupid idea, trying to talk to him. Harry holds his head up high, and replaces the softness, his feelings, the distractions that got in his way, with his carefully crafted blank-slate face. Then he walks back to the garage.

He passes by Horan who asks, “Seriously though, I have a million questions. Can I stop by later?” Harry nods, because over the past couple of months, as he let his guard down, he realized not everyone around him is an asshole. Horan’s funny and down to earth, and has been nothing but kind and welcoming to Harry, even though Harry’s always been an utter prick. He nods again and manages a tight smile, but doesn’t trust his voice to come out even. 

He sees Zayn too. Zayn looks like he’s about to say something, but then he turns, and walks the other direction.

He can’t find Liam. Harry needs to grovel. Liam doesn’t deserve this. Panic starts to creep in when he lets himself consider the repercussions. Liam could leave him, after this season. Another rider would snap him up in an instant, since he’s the very best at what he does. The rest of the season is probably down the drain. Riders and their crew chiefs need to be in constant communication. To succeed, they need to always be on the same page. He’ll be lucky if Liam ever talks to him again. He’s not even worthy of Liam’s expertise, let alone his friendship. 

He does find Louis, though. Harry turns the hallway to his dressing room and Louis is on the floor, in front of Harry’s door, cycling through a series of stretches. Harry stands and watches for longer than would would strictly be considered normal, but his emotions are running amok. Anger, fear, frustration, sadness, disbelief: endless waves of pain are crashing on top of each other, deep in his stomach.

In a last ditch effort, Harry pulls out his phone.

**Dad:** I told you shoud’ve quit yrs ago  
  


Harry can’t help the sob that escapes past his diaphragm and is wrenched through his throat.

“Harry?”

Louis is on his feet in an instant, rushing to Harry’s side. Louis reaches out to put a hand on Harry’s arm, and Harry flinches. 

“Was it you?” Harry asks.

All concern slides of Louis’ face and is replaced by incredulousness. “Seriously?”

It’s not a no.

Harry swipes his nose with the back of his hand and finishes his walk to his room. His hand shakes as he tries to unlock the door, and Louis puts a steading hand over his to help swipe the keycard. 

Harry stumbles to the couch and drops down. Louis pours him a glass of water and sets it on the table in front of him.

“Why are you here, Louis?”

“Because I’m worried about you.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“I wish I wasn’t.”

Harry lets out a wry laugh. “Thanks. I’m fine. You can go.”

“You’re clearly not fine.” Louis sits on the edge of the other side of the couch. “If I thought you had anyone else, I wouldn’t be here.”

Harry snorts. 

“I saw Liam,” Louis says. “He’s devastated.”

“Yeah. I’m great at that, apparently.”

“You’re not—”

“Why’d you do it? You couldn’t let me win? You had to lash out?” Harry registers the shock in Louis’ eyes, but there’s too much to say and no way for him to stop the torrent once it starts. “I hurt you so you hurt me right back? It was an accident, Louis. What I did to your heart—our hearts—I didn’t mean to… But you’re just cruel. To do this to me on purpose. To take my biggest secret, my biggest fear, everything I had hidden away, and to just carelessly tell _everyone?_ You—”

Louis’ jaw ticks with how tightly it’s clenched. 

“You’re such a shithead,” Louis seethes. He walks past Harry and slams the door on his way out.

Harry throws his phone against the wall, where it thumps and unsatisfyingly cracks as it hits the floor. At least that’ll be easy to replace.


	7. Chapter 7

Harry keeps knocking on Liam’s door despite his raw knuckles. He knows Liam’s home, his car is in the driveway, but he didn’t answer the doorbell, so Harry's taken to knocking haphazardly while leaning against the door. Maybe he’ll annoy Liam enough for him to open the door. It’s not a great plan, but Harry’s overwhelmed with fear and he needs to speak his peace. He could manage if the rest of his world crashes around him; if his dad’s disappointed again, if all the sponsorships dry up like Des predicted, if he irreparably fucked things up with Louis, if he’s ostracized within the racing community… he could survive all of that.

But he can’t lose Liam.

Liam’s Harry’s rock and he can’t do this job without him. He’d have to walk away before entrusting his life to someone else’s hands. 

Harry presses the doorbell another time, holding it down until it makes a dull broken noise. 

Liam’s dogs come running this time, and finally a wet-haired Liam opens the door. 

“What the fuck, Harry? You trying to break the doorbell too?”

“Sorry. Liam, I’m so… you’ve got to believe how sorry I am.”

“Jesus, have you been crying?” Liam steps back and invites Harry in.

“I didn’t know the human body could produce so many tears,” Harry says. The dogs jump on him and Liam tries fruitlessly to get them to stop. Harry pours all his affection into cooing at them. At least they still love him.

“Thank you,” Harry says into the fur. “For letting me in. I know I’ve been obnoxious out there—”

“How long have you been here? I was down in the gym, then showering. I just walked up.”

“Oh.” That’s better than him ignoring him for the stupid amount of time Harry was out there. “It doesn’t matter. I know you’re angry, so thanks for letting me in.”

“Come in. I got those sparkling drinks that you loved at Zayn’s.”

Harry doesn’t deserve him.

“Yeah… that… yes, that’d be great.”

Liam’s already walking toward the kitchen so Harry follows.

Liam tosses him a water bottle and takes one for himself before sitting down. “Okay, I’m listening.”

“I want to apologize again,” Harry says as he sits down across from him.

“Okay.”

“I totally understand why you’re upset. I’m not going to make excuses or try to rationalize why I hid it from you, I’m just going to say I’m sorry that I didn’t trust you. You don’t deserve that and I know how much it could’ve—probably did—fuck your whole plan for me. So, whatever reasons I had, I know that I was in the wrong. That you deserve better from me.”

Liam nods. “Thanks. For letting me know.”

“And I know I’m asking a lot, but I want us to continue working together. I don’t want another crew chief. You’re… you’re it for me.” 

Liam opens his mouth but Harry keeps talking.

“I won’t blame you if you leave the team. But I’ll hate it, a lot. Sorry, that’s not… I don’t want to guilt you… but you should know, like, you’re one of the only reasons why I keep doing this? Like, without you there keeping me sane, I’m sure I would’ve quit a while ago. So whatever you want, if you need more money I can transfer—”

“Harry,” Liam says gently. “Stop before you hyperventilate.” He looks down at the dogs settled at his feet then continues, “I’m not planning on abandoning you. I—Christ, your dad’s done a number on you. We can have a fight and keep working together. It’s frustrating, really fucking frustrating and I need to recalculate literal years of work, but I’m not giving up on you. You’re the best racer out there.”

“Oh.”

“We’re going to sit down and have a real conversation about what you’ve been doing and what you plan to do and I’ll want to come watch, and like, hook you up to the machines so I can get accurate measurements, but I’m not—I’m not walking away.”

“Oh.”

“Oh? Fucking hell, Harry. How worried about this have you been?”

Harry knows better than to lie. “Maybe too nervous to eat for the past day.”

Liam shakes his head. “Sorry I put you through that. I’m not… I’m not over it yet, it still stings, but of course we’re going to keep working together.” He pushes out his chair and stands, walking back to the fridge. “What do you want? I can grill you some salmon?”

***

After the news of Harry’s extracurricular activity hit the paddock, Harry all but threw a jacket over his face when he left. But he’s got to face the music sometime, so he prepares himself to be taunted all day, gets on his bike, and goes anyway.

To say it’s a surprise when no one bats an eye when he walks into the garage is an understatement. 

“Hey, Harry. You have a good morning?” Liam asks with a bright smile when Harry arrives.

“Yes?” Harry’s suspicious of Liam’s good mood. “You?”

“Yeah, it’s been great. Marco was showing me this prototype of this tracker that we might be able to use next year to get data on airflow patterns.”

“That sounds like something you would be excited about,” Harry says with a smile. 

Harry feels off balance. Their conversation over dinner was still stilted and Harry doesn’t understand what’s changed.

“Ready to get some killer times today?”

“Yeah. Yes. I just… we’re… are we…?

“We’re fine.” Liam gives him a friendly punch on the shoulder.

“Yeah? Because I really am sorry about it all.”

“I know you are. We’re cool. I get why you thought it needed to be a secret. And we’re getting you recalibrated with your diet and stuff. And, you were still kicking ass even if your in and outtakes were all fucked. So now… I’m excited to see what the future brings.”

“Me too, man. And I do promise not to do something like that again.”

Liam laughs. “There another sport you’re excelling at and keeping a secret?”

“No.” Harry rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Liam gives him a fist bump and walks away to the wall of computers monitoring the weather and a million other pieces of data.

Before Harry can even get into his leathers, Horan’s at his hip. “Can I ask you a question?”

Harry heart pounds and he tenses in anticipation. “Yeah, sure.”

“Is this ballet thing why you have the best knee drag in the MPL?”

“Um...” Harry’s never really thought about that.

“Because earlier this year, a few of us were talking about your ridiculous body position. Like, watching tapes, it’s just, you’re so fucking consistent.”

“I don’t really know.”

“Tommo was saying that you just had this… innate, God-given ability. But now, I think it’s the ballet. And I want in.”

“What?”

“I want in on these lessons. Rexha and Mendes too. Probably others once they figure out how you’re gaming the system.” Horan winks at him. “And I’ve seen you stretch and lift. You’ve got the most flexible hips out of all of us. You’ve got to teach me.”

“I don’t… like, I teach toddlers.”

“Great!” Horan’s whole face lights up. “I’ll probably be as good as them, right? To start? You’re going to have to start with the basics.”

“Right. Yeah. I guess.”

“Awesome, man.” Horan pats him on the back. “I’ll find you later and we can figure out the details.”

“Okay.”

Horan’s not the only one. Multiple riders ask Harry if he can get them started, what kinds of things they could focus on to increase their body awareness and flexibility, and Harry spends his day in a daze, confused about how wrong he was about everything.

***

A couple of weeks later, Liam slams down his wrench for the third time that day and Harry can’t keep quiet anymore. “What’s up with you today?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t believe you. And I’m worried you’re going to snap that wrench in half when you pick it up. Then we won’t be able to get another one delivered by this weekend because they’re handmade by one ninety-year-old man in Mongolia.”

“Ha. You’re hilarious.” Liam rolls his eyes.

“Fine. Don’t tell me. Whatever.”

“It’s stupid. Tommo’s been in a terrible mood and taking it out on Zayn, so Zayn’s in a terrible mood and not necessarily taking it out on me, but it’s been hard, so I’m taking it out on that wrench, apparently. You should just go before someone starts taking something out on you.”

“Why’s Louis in a bad mood?”

Liam shrugs.

“What’d Malik say?” Harry says, digging for information.

“Someone wasn’t who they seemed. Or there were more rumors. I don’t know. There’s probably more to it, but Zayn was pretty cagey and I didn’t want to pry. Not really my concern, at the end of the day.”

“Yeah, guess so.”

Liam looks at him for another long moment and Harry knows this is one of those times where he needs to step up and be a better friend. “Can we talk?” Harry asks abruptly.

“We are talking.”

“Oh my god, Payne. Can we please go to a conference room where we can discuss…” Harry pauses, trying to think of a word to fill in the blank. “Strategy?”

“Sure?”

Liam wipes his hands on his branded coveralls, and gestures for Harry to start walking.

Harry ducks into the first open room and closes the door behind Liam.

“I want to tell you something.”

“Okay?”

“I was… you can’t tell anyone, okay. Literally no one knows.”

“I promise. I won’t.”

“Louis—Tommo—and I… we were… like…” Harry gesticulates and widens his eyes and tries to convey what he’s trying to say without actually saying it.

Harry sees the moment it all clicks in Liam’s brain.

“Are you trying to tell me that you’re Tommo’s ex?”

“Um. No? Not exactly.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“Well I sort of am? I’m not his ex, technically, because we weren’t… I didn’t think we were… but I think he thought we were? So maybe? Yes?”

“Oh, well that clears things up.”

“Liam,” Harry says with a roll of his eyes. “You know I’m not good at this. You’re the first person I’m telling about—”

“About Tommo.”

“Yep.”

“Tommo. Of all people.”

“I know. My dad would hit the roof. He maybe already has? I don’t know. He asked me one day, if I—”

“Did you break up with him because of your dad?”

“No!” Liam looks unconvinced and Harry backtracks. “Not exactly? It’s not like he said ‘break up with him’ and I did. It’s… complicated. We’re rivals.”

“On the track, for like forty-five minutes a week, during the season. It’s not like—”

“It wasn’t going to work. Okay?”

“Okay. If you say so. He just seems like such a good dude. And you’ve been… happier… this season.”

“My dad’s been riding my ass harder than—”

“And yet you’ve still been happier than I’ve ever seen you.”

“Well.” None of it matters now. “He showed his true colors. The ballet thing. It had to have come from him.”

“That doesn’t sound like him. He’s always—”

“He’s the only one that knew, besides me and my dad. There’s no way it could’ve been anyone else.”

“Word of mouth? From someone at the studio?”

“I mean… it’s awfully suspicious that it happened right after Louis and I stopped… what we were doing.”

“But it’s a possibility.”

Liam’s not wrong, as much as Harry hates to admit it. “It’s a possibility.”

“Maybe you should ask him.”

“It wouldn’t change—”

“I bet you’re really cute together. I can see how you guys would work—”

“You don’t even know him.”

“I do.” Liam frowns. “A bit. Now. Through Zayn.”

Harry wonders if the three of them have been hanging out without him. He doesn’t think it’s fair of him to ask. “Whatever.”

“Harry, you know how much I love you. And I’ve seen you get in your own way so many times over the past—”

“Wha—”

“No. Listen. If it didn’t work, for whatever reason, that’s fine. Ignore me. But if you’re making up bullshit reasons to appease some made up _thing_ in your brain, then maybe you should just think about it.”

Harry doesn’t try to fight it. Liam’s not wrong, exactly. Though he’s not right either, Harry’s pretty sure.

“Don’t hurt yourself thinking,” Liam jokes.

“I won’t. Because I’m not wrong.”

“Okay.” Liam shrugs. “If you say so.”

***

But the more Harry thinks about, the more he wonders if he is wrong. 

It’s eating him up, the overthinking about this when he should be thinking about a sponsorship renewal that’s up for renegotiation and the upcoming dinner with the team owner, and getting more Kinesio tape for his thigh, so he seeks out Louis. He’s not at the paddock and Harry knows he’s not going to show up at the dance studio anymore, so he rides over to Louis’ house. He knocks and knocks and no one answers, so he sits on the stoop and waits. 

He plays a few rounds of an old game on his phone, since he has nothing better to do. Then he stands and stretches, going through an old series of movements that he does when there’s no barre available.

He’s coming out of a _plié_ when Malik pulls up in his pickup truck, Louis riding shotgun. 

They sit in the truck, staring through the windshield at Harry, having a conversation Harry can’t hear. It doesn’t look promising. Harry lets himself be stared at, for as long as it takes for Louis to exit the car. 

Louis jumps down and slams the truck’s door.

“Hi,” Harry says to Louis’ scowl.

“What are you doing here, Styles?”

“Ouch.” It’s not like he deserves better. “I want to apologize.”

Louis taps his foot on the ground, arms crossed over his chest. 

“For accusing you,” Harry continues. “I didn’t even give you a chance to explain. Or defend yourself. You—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Louis says, his voice flat.

“Of course it does. I—”

“You got what you wanted from me. Had your bit of fun. What you think of me now is as irrelevant as what you used to think about me. A brainless slut who spends all his time partying. A conniving asshole who’d use your secrets against you. What you think of me doesn’t matter. I know who I am.”

Harry struggles to pull in a full breath. Louis’ face is a stone mask, and Harry knows how very wrong he’s been about everything.

“You wouldn’t.” Harry says softly, quietly. “I know you wouldn’t. But I don’t know what the answer is. And it’s… it was easier. Blaming you. My brain telling my heart that it’s wrong. Coming up with convenient excuses, what I wanted to be true so I didn’t have to face all my mistakes.”

Louis’ lip trembles and Harry tears up, desperate for Louis to know what he’s saying is true.

“I’ve made so many mistakes, Lou. More than I can begin to fix. But you, hurting you, that one is going to haunt me for a long time. Which I deserve. But then I was… to not even give you a chance. To jump to conclusions. I know I can’t fix it. I don’t deserve your…” Harry clears his throat, but the ball of shame remains. “I’m sorry I ever made you feel like shit. You’re the best person I know and you didn’t deserve any of it.”

With a sharp nod and glassy eyes glued on his front door, Louis walks past.

He gently closes the door behind him and Harry’s left with Malik, who’s hovering by the truck. 

Harry takes a step forward, pauses, and tries to read Malik. 

“I—” Pleading to the best friend feels like overstepping, but Harry needs Louis to know. “Can you, please, tell him that I know he didn’t tell everyone. Please. It’s—” Harry jams his fists in his pockets when Malik’s face remains impassive.

Malik opens the back door and pulls out two gym bags. He crisscrosses them over his chest. “Tell everyone what?”

“About me, dancing. I know it wasn’t him. I don’t know who it was, but I know it wasn’t him.”

Zayn’s brows rise. “It wasn’t him.”

“I know,” Harry all but wails. He twists a strand of hair around his finger, pulling tight. “I need him to know I know.”

“It was me.”

“What?” It takes a second for the information to process. “You—”

“Sorry, dude. I honestly had no idea it was secret. Or…” He scuffs the toe of his shoe along the driveway. “Guess I owe him an apology too. I didn’t know that’s what— I would’ve told you, like, earlier, had I known that’s what got you two all…”

“Oh. How’d—”

“The twins. They were talking one night. And I just mentioned something to Winston in the garage. He was looking for some stretch, and I didn’t… I promise I didn’t know it was, like, a thing. A secret. Or whatever.”

“I believe you,” Harry says, quietly. 

“Cool. Well, I’m sorry anyway. That I—”

Harry shakes his head. It’s fine. There’s nothing to be done about it now. Louis is still rightfully pissed off and Harry messed up the best relationship he’s ever had.

“Can you tell him…” Harry steps forward then pulls up short. “Tell him I was wrong. About everything. I— I know he doesn’t want to be friends. But if he can ever forgive me, if he ever wants to try again…” 

Malik pats him on the shoulder with a pitying look. “He’s pretty forgiving. Give it some time. Prove it. Be the person he deserves, or I’m not telling him shit.”

“Okay.” Harry squints into the summer sun. It’s more than he hoped for. “I’ll do it. You’ll see.”

“Hope so. I like you, Harry.”

***

“Harry, we need to talk.” Des is waiting in the wings as Harry comes off the podium. 

Harry slows down as he walks by. “Can it wait?” Harry’s still high off the win and he needs to talk to Louis and he’s had enough of his dad’s bullshit for the moment. 

“Not really. It’s about LVCD.” Des is right behind Harry’s when he turns around. “Christian needs a decision today.”

“Dad,” Harry’s voice comes out sharper than he planned, and Des stops short. “I’ve given you, and them, the decision. I am not cutting or changing my hair for the campaign. I’ve said that, multiple times.”

Des huffs. “I thought by now you’d change your mind. This is a great sponsorship, best I’ve ever seen, and it’s downright foolish that you won’t accept it.”

“You really want to do this here?” Harry gesticulates at all the people bustling around them. “Fine. It’s foolish that they won’t accept _my_ terms. It’s a few inches of hair, and quite frankly if that scares people from buying a watch then I don’t want those people buying something because of me. I know it’s a big deal. I know it’s a lot of money. I know what it could lead to. Contrary to what you happen to believe, I do actually know what I’m doing. Both with sponsors and on the track.”

“But I’ve been through this before, I know what’s best for you.”

Harry can feel the shock on his face. “You can’t actually believe—”

“I’ve been living and breathing the MPL for decades! Don’t tell me I don’t—”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“Exactly what?”

“You’ve been living and breathing MPL for your entire life. You lost your wife, your daughter barely talks to—”

“Harry!”

“You’re lucky I happen to love this sport as much as you do. But you’ve got to see how unhealthy this is.”

“Just because they didn’t understand my passion—”

“I know. You love it more than anything else. As you’ve told us time and time again. But just because you feel that way doesn’t mean I have to feel that way. I love the Motorbike Premier League but I love other things too. I can’t pour my entire self into one thing like you can.”

“It’s how I succeeded in this sport. You have to live and breathe it.”

Harry shakes his head. “Don’t think I have to, Dad. I might never be a triple champ, like you, but I’m still a damn good racer. I’m really fucking good at this, and I don’t have to hide parts of myself or compromise to continue to succeed.”

“Of course you’re a damn good racer. Why do you think I’ve pushed you so hard? I always knew you could do it.”

Harry scoffs. “Of course? Dad, this is _literally_ the first time you’ve _ever_ told me I’m a good racer.”

Des looks flabbergasted. “That’s not true. I… I—”

“I’ll wait.”

Des opens his mouth then closes it again. “You are, a really good racer. You have more raw potential than—” 

“Dad. I guess I get that in some fucked up way you thought you were helping me. But I love this sport despite you, not because of you.”

“Harry…” For the first time ever, it appears as though Des is speechless.

“Dad, I love you. But you have to ease up. I’m not cutting my hair for the campaign. End of story. I’m not discussing it again. I’m gay and feminine sometimes and I fucking love my hair and I can still kick ass out on the track even with my nails painted. None of that is mutually exclusive.”

Des’ nostrils flare but he nods his head once. “We can talk about all of this more, later,” he says. He sticks out his hand, and Harry shakes it. “Good race today.”

“Thanks.” Harry hates how much those three small words flood him with pride. But maybe they can actually move forward from here. It’s only taken him this many years to get to this point, maybe with a few more years and a lot of work, their relationship could be salvaged. 

Most everyone around them pretends they haven’t been listening, but Harry looks over to see Louis overtly standing within hearing distance and eavesdropping, a small smile on his face. Harry smiles back, and Louis tips his head and walks away. 

***

By the time Harry leaves the paddock, it’s late and nearly empty. 

So it’s a surprise to find Louis standing outside the main gates, talking to a few children who are excitedly bouncing on their toes. They squeal again when Harry walks up, and Harry hopes Louis doesn’t think he’s stealing his thunder. 

After signing a few autographs and telling them to stay in school, the kids are called away by their parents and Harry turns to Louis. 

“I know I don’t deserve a second chance.”

“Harry—”

“Wait. I. Can I please?” Harry tucks his lip between his teeth and waits for Louis to give him a small nod. “I fucked up. I was scared and I lashed out and I’m ashamed that I acted that way. You didn’t, you don’t, deserve that. And I’m—”

“Thank you.” Louis looks at him earnestly. “Apology accepted.”

“I’m going to do better. Not put my burdens on others. It wasn’t fair to ask you to keep my secret and I shouldn’t have—”

“Harry.” Louis gently kicks the side of his foot. “Stop. You’ve got to let people in. Keeping your secret safe wasn’t a burden. I didn’t understand it, but I was happy to protect it. Protect you.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. It sucked that you didn’t trust me. I kind of get it, now. I know I was one of the few who… but yeah. I thought we had made progress? Were friends, at the very least? Even though I let myself hope for so much more. And then to think you still thought of me as…”

“I know you’re not. I never should’ve let you think that I had a moment of doubt. I shouldn’t have had a moment of doubt. I know you.”

“Well, thanks. For letting me know.”

“And, uh, you can tell Zayn that I’m working on it.”

“Working on what?”

“Working on being a man worthy of you.”

Louis rolls his eyes and lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “Harry.”

“I don’t… I don’t expect you to like, wait, until I get all my shit together. I know I have a long way to go. But just so you know, that’s my end game. Being worthy of you. Earning a chance to woo you, properly, the way you deserve.”

Louis opens his mouth and then sucks in a huge breath instead of saying anything. He closes it again and Harry waits him out, since it seems like he wants to say something. When Louis looks down at his feet with a small shake of his head, Harry bites down hard on his lip to keep from tearing up again. He knew it wasn’t going to be that easy, but he had hoped that at least Louis was open to the idea. It doesn't change that Harry needs to work on himself, but he is disappointed that’s how it’s turning out. 

Harry speaks when it’s clear Louis isn't going to. “I won’t, um, bother you. Again. If you don’t—”

“What?” Louis looks up at him, panicked.

“If I blew my only chance. I won’t… I can leave you alone.”

“No. That’s… Harry. Oh my god, you’re infuriating. You’re… great. An apology and saying you want to work toward something and… Fuck. You’re… this is a lot. Like everything single thing about you. It’s impossible to stay mad at you after this.”

“Oh. Cool. I think?”

“Yeah. Cool. And I saw you stand up to your dad today. That was… I’m really proud of you.”

“I want to tell him.”

“You want to tell him what?”

“About you. That I’m in love with you. That we were… something… and that I want us to be something more in the future. I don’t want to hide you.”

“Ha—”

“Fuck. Sorry. Again. I know we’re not… but someday. I hope. The point is that if, someday, we’re… I don’t want it to be a secret. I don’t want anything about us to feel like you’re not the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Everyone should know that.”

“You love me?”

Harry pulls up short, his brain screeching to a halt. He does, actually, love Louis. “I do.”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“This is all still… a lot. I need to process. But after. After this season is over, if you ask nicely I’ll go out on a date with you, Harry Styles.”

Harry claps his hands loudly, then fist pumps, before instinctively pulling Louis in for a hug. “I promise I’m going to treat you right.” He smacks a kiss on the side of Louis’ head then steps away. “I’m going to woo you so hard, Louis Tomlinson.”

Harry walks away, backward, smiling dopily at Louis. 

“Just be kind,” Louis shouts after him. 

“No way,” Harry shouts back. “You deserve the world!”


	8. Chapter 8

Going into the nineteenth and final race of the season, Harry’s ahead of Louis in the standings by only two points. More often than not, the championship is already won before the last race, so the fact that Harry and Louis are still battling it out has raised their rivalry to a fever pitch. He’s tried to leave Louis alone, but his eyes have been drawn to him every time they’re in the same room. Liam’s caught them staring at each other so often that more than once he’s told Harry to “stop with the eye fucking already.”

After the last qualifying session, a huge crowd of reporters are waiting for him, all wanting to know about his chances of dethroning Louis, and what his predictions are. Since he qualified fourth, his actual predictions for his own chances aren’t great. But for the journalists, he keeps an even keel: he’s going to race his hardest, Tommo’s a force to be reckoned with and no one should count him out, everyone is out there to win, blah blah blah. It’s all the same song and dance of non-answers that he gives every week. 

In reality, he’s actually jittery and far too much in his own head. He was tight all through practice and couldn’t shake it before quali and he psyched himself up for such a terrible race that he hardly slept at all. He hopes that if he has a terrible race, that at least Louis will do well.

Sitting on his bike, waiting for the lights to go out, Harry feels like a rubber band ready to snap. So many positions through the midfield are open too, so this last race will be rough, more so than usual, with pressure from the back and his own desire to pass the two in front of him before trying to get ahead of Louis, who won pole position. 

One at a time, the five lights turn red. Harry’s got the clutch pulled and he’s revving the engine, then all at once the lights go dark and Harry releases the clutch. His reflexes are on point at least, as he easily cruises past Mendes. Louis and Samuels seem to have gotten a great start as well, so Harry focuses on what needs to be done to keep the rest of the racers at bay while figuring out the best way to pass Samuels. 

When Samuels bobbles the fourth corner on lap twenty-three, Harry’s able to finally get around him. Harry has five laps to catch up to and then pass Louis, who’s maintained a sizable lead all weekend. Harry watches as Louis leans into the next curve and he looks so relaxed on the bike that Harry can’t fathom why anyone would think that _he’s_ the natural when Louis looks like that.

Harry can’t get roped into that line of thinking though, or else he’s not going to do anything else besides stare at Louis’ ass as he races through the final few laps. 

He manages to get closer, at least, and by the last lap he’s right on Louis’ bumper. 

But as much as he pushes, he can’t close the gap, and as they race down the last straight away towards the checkered flag, he knows the race is over. He still gives a valiant effort, pushing as hard as he can in case he’s miscalculated, but as they cross the finish line, Louis is ahead of him.

***

Harry’s extraordinarily proud of Louis winning his fourth championship, even if that means Harry ends his season in second place, again. He watches from across the garage as Louis is doused in champagne and congratulated by seemingly everyone even tangentially related to MPL.

Louis and Zayn are getting pulled into a huge group photo when Harry’s dad strolls over and pats him on the back. “You did good,” he says. 

“Thanks, Dad.” Harry bumps shoulders with him and in response his dad awkwardly punches him in the shoulder. Harry’ll take it. “You going to gracefully hand over your throne?” 

“Yeah. Yeah. Give the boy a minute, I’ll go congratulate him. You going to celebrate tonight? Second place’s still better than almost everyone else.”

“Eh. Maybe. Might see what everyone else is up to.”

“I heard there was a party at Malik’s.” His dad raises his eyebrows, like it’s an invitation.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Nah. I’ll be at Jimmy’s with the other old timers. We’ll let you youngins celebrate without us retelling our glory days stories.”

“We appreciate that, Dad.” 

With another pat to his back, his dad walks away. Harry watches the celebration for a few more minutes, until Liam calls him over, letting him know there was someone there to see him.

He’s led to one of the conference rooms, and he opens the door to find Christian tapping away at his phone. 

“Oh. Hi.” Harry didn’t expect to see him, of all people. “Did we have a meeting?”

“No. Sorry. I hope that I’m not interrupting anything too important.”

“Uh. No. Just— Yeah, no. Sorry. You’re not interrupting.”

“All the same, I’ll keep this quick.” Harry nods. “We’ve decided to offer you the sponsorship.”

“Oh. Okay. Um…” Harry isn’t sure if his dad had actually communicated any of his so-called demands, or if he’s going to have to let Christian down as nicely as he can, considering the circumstances. “I’m still not budging on my hair.”

“Yes. That was made very clear to us by the repeated attempts at negotiation.”

“Oh.”

“We’d like to work with you. End of the story.”

“But…” Harry tries to think back to the initial pitch and all he can remember is, “Masculinity?”

“If you sign on, we’re going to build the whole campaign around different versions of masculinity.”

“What?”

“We’ve done a lot of focus grouping and realized our initial vision was a little behind the times.”

Duh.

“So,” Christian continues, “we’re going to spotlight traditional masculinity, as well as, well, untraditional, let’s say.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“We’re going to be more inclusive. Not only for athletes at the top of their game, but also stay-at-home dads, gay men, women who don’t want something too feminine. There will be a variety of colors to choose from. That sort of thing.”

“Oh. Okay.” That sounds better than the original pitch, at least.

“And we want you to be the centerpiece.”

“Oh.” Harry should be more eloquent, but this has thrown him for a loop.

“Even with your hippie hair.”

“I feel like that’s a backhanded compliment,” Harry says. “But I’m not strictly opposed to this concept. If you send the contract than I can look it over, get back to you in a day or so.”

“We’re all really excited about this. It should open up the market to us and earn us some points with those PC-types.”

Well, he’s missing the point, but at least it was a better deal all around.

“Is there anything else?” Harry has celebrating to do, with people less stuffy than the suit in front of him.

Christian stands to shake his hand. “That covers it. Thanks for meeting with me, Harry. And we’ll get the papers over to you right away.”

Harry gives him a halfhearted handshake. Christian’s already back on his phone as Harry walks away.

***

Zayn’s party goes well into the morning hours and it’s exactly like the image Harry had of Louis and Zayn all those months ago. The music’s so loud he’s surprised the neighbors haven’t called the cops, there are discarded cups on every flat surface, the kitchen is wall-to-wall people, and Harry’s been greeted by so many strangers it’s a little disconcerting. 

The people and the noises and camera flashes start to get to Harry, and he’s on a hunt to find somewhere quiet to sit and get his thoughts together for a few minutes. The season’s over. And Harry plans to start wooing Louis… if only he can find him. 

But once he finds him, he’s still not entirely sure of how to go about doing the wooing. 

Harry opens a door off of the kitchen, looking for the bathroom, and instead finds a set of stairs. He hopes Zayn won’t mind if he helps himself to a few minutes of privacy. 

The basement is huge, with a fully furnished wet bar along one wall and leather couches surrounding a low table. A large TV is mounted on the wall, and Harry realizes someone is playing a video game. He steps closer and realizes it’s Louis, slouched low, eyes focused on his silent game. 

“Hey,” Harry says. 

Louis leaps out of his skin, dropping his remote and then clutching his chest. “Fuck me,” he says with a smile. “You could warn a guy.”

“Oops. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Louis picks up his remote and pauses his game. He looks up at Harry. “Hi.”

“Can I…?” He motions toward the couch where Louis’ sitting. 

“Yeah, sure. Of course.”

Harry sits next to him, even though there’s plenty of couch to spare. “So…”

“Whatcha doing down here?” Louis asks.

“I’m uh, I needed a break from everything going on up there.”

Louis smirks. “Yeah. I normally last about an hour before I escape down here. I’m glad you found me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Harry widens his legs, bumping knees with Louis and pressing their thighs together. “The season’s over.”

“I won.” Louis tilts his head back with a wide smile. 

“You did. Fucking legend.”

“You didn’t let me, did you?” Louis asks.

“Fuck no!”

Louis laughs. “I know. I’m unbeatable.”

Harry leans into Louis’ shoulder. “We’ll see about that next year.”

They’re quiet for a moment, until Louis says, “Your dad congratulated me.”

“Did he? Was he—”

“Perfect gentleman. Couldn’t’ve been nicer. It’s weird… knowing him through your eyes now.”

“I actually think it might be different now? Time will tell, but I’m not seething in rage over you mentioning his name now, so… progress.”

“I really was proud of you for saying something to him.”

“Did your parents…” Harry doesn’t even know what to ask. 

“Nah. Haven’t heard a word. But I didn’t expect it so…”

Harry puts a hand on Louis’ thigh and squeezes. “That’s still shitty, though.”

Louis shrugs. “It is what it is.” Harry’s eyes flick to his chest piece.

They sit in silence, or, as silent as the room is with the raging party right above them. Harry’s tracing patterns over Louis’ leg and Louis lets him. “I don’t actually know how to woo you,” Harry eventually says.

Louis’ smile falters momentarily. “Giving up so easily?”

“Nah. Asking for some leniency, maybe? I might fuck this up. But it won’t be on purpose.”

“It’s the thought that counts, probably.” Louis places his hand on Harry’s and interlocks their fingers.

“I’ve never wooed anyone before.”

“I’ve never been wooed before.”

Louis squeezes Harry’s hand, and Harry asks, “Can I take you out for a celebratory dinner?”

“Only if you call it a date and not a celebratory dinner,” Louis says with a smirk.

“Can I take you out on a date? Tomorrow night?”

“You gonna bring me flowers?”

“Do you want flowers?”

“Not really.”

“Then no. But I’ll pick you up? I’ll dress nicely. Hold your hand as we drive?”

Louis squeezes his hand again. “Sounds perfect, actually.”

They lock eyes, then Harry’s eyes drift down to Louis’ lips. If Louis’ smirk is anything to go by, he’s noticed. 

“See something you like?” Louis asks. 

“I want to kiss you,” Harry says.

Louis licks his lips. “What’s stopping you?”

Harry’s the luckiest person on the planet, getting not one, but two chances with this magnificent, sweet creature. Harry scootches his bum closer to Louis, and takes the sides of his face in his hands. Harry sweeps over his cheekbones with his thumbs and Louis’ eyes flutter shut. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” Harry whispers, before he slowly leans in. 

***

“Do you want to come back to mine?” Harry asks. “No pressure, of course.” Their date had gone flawlessly so far; Harry brought chocolates to Louis’ door when he picked him up, they held hands on the way to the restaurant, ate dinner by candlelight, and all of it was accompanied by engaging conversation and laughter. If Louis looked up 'wooing' in the dictionary, there’d be a picture of Harry and this date.

Harry isn’t ready for it to be over. But he doesn’t want to push his luck either. He may have been optimistic when planning, but he understands if Louis wants to take their relationship rebuilding slow. 

“Yeah,” Louis says with a squeeze of Harry’s fingers. “I’d love a nightcap at yours.”

Back at Harry’s, they sit on the couch, glasses of water on the table in front of them, and as the conversation drifts to a close, Harry takes a chance and leans in for a kiss. Louis meets him halfway, their lips touching softly. Harry opens up for him after only a moment, and Louis reacts, slipping his tongue next to Harry’s. Harry gets lost in the feeling of his fingers twined through Louis’ hair, the quiet sounds Louis makes, the feeling of all his senses being wrapped up in Louis.

Louis pushes him back against the couch, then straddles him, pinning Harry’s thighs with Louis’ own. Harry tilts his head back and offers himself for more. Louis nips on his lower lip as he goes in for more kisses; Harry’s got his hands on Louis’ hips, thumbing at the soft skin beneath his shirt. Harry pulls him closer, bringing his hands across Louis’ back, and Louis rolls his hips, creating the most wonderful friction. Louis makes another broken-off whine from the back of his throat, and Harry whispers, “Let me hear you. Wanna know how good I make you feel.”

Louis whines louder, then kisses the length of Harry’s jaw, until he’s sucking at the skin just below his ear. “You make me feel so good, Harry.”

Harry’s got a lapful of a squirming Louis and he desperately wants to move this into the bedroom. 

“Hey. Baby? Can we—” Harry cuts himself off as Louis reaches down and cups Harry’s dick through his pants. “Do you want to move this to the bedroom?”

“Yes, please,” Louis says, already clambering off Harry.

“Okay. Just…” Harry allows himself a moment to take a breath and compose himself, shaking off the heady feel of Louis all around him. “Wait here a moment. I’ll be right back.”

Louis’ flushed and eager face falls. “Why?”

“I just have to do something…”

“Harry. You promised. No more hiding things from me.”

“I know. This isn’t… shit. Okay. No. It’s a surprise? For you.”

“Okay,” Louis looks skeptical but he goes along with it, sitting back on the couch with an _oof._

Harry rushes to get everything ready. He doesn’t want Louis waiting too long. It’s maybe overkill, but he thinks it’s worth the risk.

“Okay,” Harry walks back into the living room and takes Louis’ hands in his. He helps Louis stand, and brings him in for a hug. “Sorry.”

“My boner’s flagged,” Louis says as he nestles his face into Harry’s neck.

“Um, we could… another day.”

“No, you doofus. You’re going to to have to seduce me now. Make it up to me.”

Harry kisses him, slow and deep. “Okay, let’s see what I can do.” Harry walks backwards, still kissing Louis, toward the bedroom. When they get to the closed door, he pauses. “I hope this is alright.”

He opens the door to present Louis the transformed room. There are vases of flowers, actual rose petals sprinkled on the bed, and the room is lit by flickering candles.

“Wha—” Louis’s speechless. He looks at Harry helplessly and then back to the decorated room.

“Is it… for me?”

Harry tangles their fingers together. “If you like it. If you don’t… there’s a spare—”

“I love it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says breathlessly. Louis spins and draws Harry into another kiss.

Louis pulls his shirt up and off his body as he walks back to the bed, and once he’s lying there, looking up at Harry, Harry begins to unbutton his shirt. He starts from the bottom, shaking his hips and trying to look as inviting as possible as he makes his way to the top. He shimmies his shoulders, then rubs his hands over his own chest. They both start to giggle at Harry’s terrible imitation of a striptease. He slides the shirt off his shoulders, then turns around show off his ass as he touches his toes. “Show off,” Louis teases. 

Harry slides his hands up his legs, then with another hip shake he unbuttons his pants, and drops them and his boxers in one smooth motion. He turns back around, and Louis’ face is red from trying to hold in his laughter. Harry loves seeing him so happy. He bends over to unbutton Louis’ pants and pull them off, kissing Louis’ cock through his boxers. “Not so soft anymore,” Harry murmurs, pressing his face against Louis’ thigh. 

Once they’re both undressed, Harry lays himself out on top of Louis, kissing him deeply.

Louis grabs Harry’s ass and massages it, as he grinds himself against Harry’s hip.

“Want to eat you out,” Louis says.

“Fuck,” Harry whines. “Yeah, okay.”

“Yeah?” Louis asks. “Seriously?”

“I mean…” Harry takes Louis’ hands in his, and kisses his knuckles. “If you actually do want to. It’s okay if you don’t, but if you, I’m game.”

“Yeah. I do… I just. I haven’t. So…”

Harry winks at him. “How are you going to be the best at it if you don’t practice?”

Louis taps Harry hip, as he gets out from under him. “Turn over, Styles.” 

Harry lays flat on his stomach and tries not to hump the sheets while he’s waiting for Louis to get situated behind him. 

Louis runs a finger down Harry’s back, causing him to shiver in anticipation. Then Louis massages Harry’s ass, digging his fingers in and separating his cheeks. “Love your ass,” Louis says reverently. “All those days I came to ogle your body as you danced.”

Harry scoffs. “Am I just a piece of meat to you?” Harry wiggles his butt, hoping for Louis to get a move on.

“I’ve wanted this for so long. It’s just so…” Louis squeezes both of his glutes at the same time. “Fuck, I love it so much.” Louis teases his finger along Harry’s crack. “You’ve worked so hard for this booty. All those _pliés.”_ He draws his finger lower, gently, and Harry moans. “Want to taste you. Want you opened up for me, on my tongue. Want to make it so good for you.”

“You will,” Harry babbles. “Please, just…” He thrusts back into Louis’ hands. 

Louis’ breath is hot against his rim. “Can’t believe I get to…” he says quietly. And then, finally, Louis gets his mouth on him. 

It’s a simple swipe of the tongue at first, but Harry cries out at the sensation. Louis’ fingers dig into his cheeks, and Harry feels, more than hears, Louis moan. 

After a few more broad licks, Louis gets to business. He hardens his tongue against Harry, teasing little touches to the puckered skin of his rim before going further, into Harry. He eats Harry out with fervor, saliva dripping down to Harry’s balls as Louis pushes his whole face into Harry. Harry, for his part, thrashes around, bucking back to get Louis deeper and trying to rub off on the sheets below him. Louis grabs Harry’s hips, his strong fingers hold him still.

Harry’s breathing hard into his arm, can feel how hot his cheeks are at the thought of Louis down there, doing _that_ to him. It’s the thought of being this vulnerable, this open with Louis that finally tips him over the edge. He pulses onto the sheets and clenches around Louis’ tongue and shivers through the aftershocks as Louis eases off, going back to kitten licks.

Harry turns over, landing in the wet spot. He groans but can’t be bothered to move yet; his legs are tingling and he feels boneless. Louis looks at him from the bottom of the bed, face wet with spit and sweat and a cheeky grin.

“Okay?” Louis asks.

Harry groans again, not yet able to form words. 

“Was it… Did I do okay?” Louis asks again. 

Harry makes grabby hands at Louis, and Louis comes easily, lying down next to Harry. Harry gathers the strength to roll over, caging Louis in below him. “Made me feel so fucking good, baby.” Harry leans down to kiss him, tasting himself on Louis, and it’s so hot that his dick twitches feebly. “What do you want?” Harry asks, once he’s finally recovered enough to follow through.

“Want your fingers now.”

“Yeah?” 

“Well, I want your dick too. So I guess we’ll need a round two.”

Harry laughs. “That can be arranged.”

Harry gets the lube and slicks up his fingers. Louis’ legs fall open, and Harry drinks in his thick thighs and hard dick and the way Louis clenches around nothing when he cranes his head to see what Harry’s doing. 

Louis fists his cock as Harry swipes a fingerful of lube along Louis’ crack. “You can be loud, if you want,” Harry says. “Don’t have to hide anything here.”

Louis nods and loudly exhales as Harry pushes in. Harry gives him a minute to get used to it before adding another finger. He drags them in and out, watching the way their bodies connect. Harry adjusts himself so he’s still got a good angle as he kisses Louis. He searches out Louis’ prostate and Louis breaks their sloppy kiss with a moan when Harry thinks he’s found it. Harry keeps pressure on it, alternating between rubbing harder and softer, until Louis’ whimpering and squirming, his body tensing and releasing.

“Don’t stop,” Louis cries out. “Keep— Right there. Please.”

Harry does as he’s asked and is rewarded with the prettiest mewl then a round of curses as Louis races closer and closer to his release. 

“Fuck! Fuck! Ha-Harry, I’m—I’m—”

Then Louis spurts between them as he cries out. He breathily moans as he’s coming down and he keeps clenching around Harry.

“Fuck, that was good,” Louis says, wiping the sweat from his brow. 

Harry curls up next to him, never one to pass up a cuddle. 

Louis looks around the room as he pets Harry’s head. “Still can’t believe you did all this.”

“Do you feel wooed?”

Louis laughs. “I don’t know. I feel something.” He wiggles around, reaching behind him and pulls out a leaf. “Pretty sure I’ve got rose petals stuck all over me.”

“Should we sleep in the guest room tonight?”

“Yeah, then you can fuck me in the morning and we start my plan of christening every room in your house.”

They stand and blow out all the candles, jumping around waving their arms, butt naked, trying to dissipate all the wisps of smoke, laughing hysterically. Harry puts his arm around Louis’ waist and leads him to the other bed.

***

It’s a week before the next season starts and Harry wants to take Louis out on one last date before the anticipated craziness. They’re planning on, well, not coming out publicly with a big announcement exactly, but not hiding their relationship. If they walk into the paddock holding hands, then everyone can pick up on the signals and draw their own conclusions. 

The off-season’s been interesting. There have been some tense dinners with the three of them, Louis, Harry, and Harry’s dad. But it’s not as terrible as Harry expected it would be. And Harry’s walked in on Louis on the phone with Des, more than once, and he’s really quite happy that they can have the pseudo-father/son relationship they both deserve. 

It’s been months and Harry still hasn’t met Louis’ parents. Which he’s really okay with. Ernest and Doris adore him, and he and Louis are doing the best they can with them, considering the circumstances. The best he can really do is support Louis with too many cuddles and an open ear as often as he needs. 

The point is, their relationship has been aces so far, and the idea of inviting others outside of their immediate circle of friends into their relationship has Harry scared shitless, but he’s doing what he can to believe Louis when he says it’ll be fine as long as they have each other to lean on. 

Since the season’s just around the corner, their schedules are getting busier again, and one of Harry’s biggest fears is that once the season’s in full swing, he’ll accidentally let wooing Louis fall down his list of priorities. It’s such a huge worry that it feels impossible that he might forget, but it would be a crime for Louis not to know how loved he is, all the time, even when he’s faster than Harry. So Harry made reservations at their favorite restaurant, one that doesn’t have white tablecloths and candlelit tables, but which they were happy to provide for Harry for a small cost. He also sprung for the balcony that overlooks the lake to be theirs only for the night. 

Louis’ coming straight from the gym, so they’re meeting there, and he’s almost positive that Louis has no idea it’s going to be any different than any other time they’ve been there. Given that tiny fact, he’s a little concerned Louis is going to kill him for showing up dressed up when Louis is surely coming in gym gear… but Harry would do many illegal things to see Louis in a headband, which is his new gym look, so Louis’ll just have to deal. 

When Louis walks through the back doors and sees Harry standing out there with a bouquet of the tulips Louis had begrudgingly agreed are his favorite, Christmas lights twinkling, and the private table, set like they’re at a Michelin starred restaurant, he freezes.

“Hey, baby,” Harry says, striding over to him.

“What the fuck, Harry,” Louis says, already melting into Harry’s embrace. “Couldn’t give a guy a heads up?”

Harry kisses him gently. “Where’s the fun in that?” 

“You did all this for me?” Louis looks around, bright eyes taking it all in.

“Of course.” Harry pulls out his chair for him. “Not doing this for anyone else.”

“You’re…” Louis licks his lips then bites down on his bottom lip. “Gorgeous,” he finally settles on. “Really, you could’ve told me. I’m…” He motions toward his t-shirt and shorts.

“Also gorgeous. You know how much I like your hair like that.” 

With a flush on his cheeks, Louis touches the long locks brushing his neck.

They order their favorites, deciding they can ignore their bland training diets, and answer to Liam and Zayn later.

Lingering over dessert, they watch the sun slowly dip below the lake, until Louis says, “So, are we going to get off in the bathroom again, or are you going to take me home soon?”

That’s really all Harry needs to hear before he’s scrambling out of his chair, and thanking their waitress for her excellent service.

Louis parked his bike right next to Harry’s, so they climb on, side by side, and grin at each other as they pull on their helmets. 

“Thanks for a great date, baby honey,” Harry says.

Louis’ face twitches. “Not sure about that one.”

“Okay, you complicated freak.”

Louis cackles loud enough that a couple entering the restaurant turn and glare at them.

Harry squints into the sun hovering just above the horizon. He loves Louis more than he knows how to express it, so he turns back to Louis with a challenging grin and says, “Race you home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not post this fic or any of my other fics on any other websites. I'm not currently allowing translations either. Thank you for respecting my wishes.
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